


Beautiful Deception

by Nymeria578



Category: Pretty Woman (1990), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Movie Fusion, Angst, Attempted Sexual Assault, Comfort, Fluff, Homophobia, Hurt, Introspection, M/M, Porn With Plot, Prostitute!Lock, Romance, Sexual Assault, Smut, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, bit of a case fic, mild panic attack, switchlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-17
Updated: 2016-09-18
Packaged: 2018-05-07 07:05:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 111,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5447591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nymeria578/pseuds/Nymeria578
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson lives a life he despises. After returning injured from Afghanistan, he survives on his small pension fund – a broken man in a society where broken is considered to be a weakness. His circumstances change when his father dies in a car crash and he inherits a wealth worth several million pounds. Even though he had run from his father’s life John takes over his company, facing the ghosts of his past, yet he stays broken…</p>
<p>… until the day he met Sherlock, a prostitute, who holds up a mirror to society’s negative image, confronting John once again with a truth he had fled over and over again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Coincidence

**Author's Note:**

> Basically, this story is loosely based on “Pretty Woman”. I’ve been toying with the idea for a while now since I actually didn’t like the movie that much, but giving it my own twists and turns I hopefully can create something new, something that goes deeper into the psychological effects of one’s decisions in life. 
> 
> The story is currently at 60k words and completely plotted out. I just need to write the last few chapters and edit them. 
> 
> At this point, I want to thank my wonderful beta [GhostTari](http://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostTari/pseuds/GhostTari) who has the patience of an angel, helping me erase my silly mistakes since I’m not a native speaker.
> 
> So I hope you’ll enjoy the story. And as always I’m open to constructive criticism. Comments fuel my inspiration. 
> 
> I aim to update every second week.

John departed from the charity event early. Somehow, he never got used to the impersonal behavior and contrived mirth of the upper class, always smiling and making nonsensical small talk. Everything seemed so superficial, the good intentions notwithstanding. The moderate glamor demonstrated a big business with half of London’s most wealthy participating and donating for a new hospital. Personally, he deemed London to have enough hospitals. He had been trained in St. Bartholomew’s and would rather like for the Lord Mayor to acknowledge that the existing hospitals might need contributions too. Well, since he inherited the family’s business after his father’s death last year, he occasionally bestowed a large sum for his Alma Mater. Of course he donated today as well – one hundred thousand pounds. His heart still leapt into his throat when he completed a cheque with such an enormous amount.

Being wealthy did have its conveniences, he confessed. Yet, since he committed himself to the family business one year ago, he encountered all those despicable people he knew since his childhood. He always felt out of place among the social boundaries of his family. That was why he decided to become a physician after school, avoiding his parents’ wish to become a manager in real estate trading. And to avert further pressure from his father after completing his training, he joined the army. Well, getting shot afield wasn’t planned and didn’t make him a hero, but unemployed and nearly destitute despite his small pension. Then his father died. John and his sister Harry inherited the company which solved all their money problems overnight; unfortunately not Harry’s occasional alcohol abuse meaning that most of the work passed into his accountability.

Therefore, he needed to face those people from his youth with whom he grew up amidst his business family. Nothing had changed since he left his parental home. He still despised them. Not all people though. Three months ago, after his divorce, he met Greg Lestrade – Commissioner of Police of the Metropolis – also in the middle of his own divorce. His name bore the honorific address _Sir_. Yet, with a working class background he didn’t fit into that bunch of snobbish and egotistic people, too, with his rather blunt and hearty manners.

He had invited Greg to come to the fundraiser in the hope of having a _real_ friend among many false ones. No one would question the attendance of the police chief of London. But he had underestimated the freshly divorced man with his distinct salt and pepper cropped hair. Soon he found a nice flirt. With John all but forgotten the party became tedious.

“Take my car,” Greg said with a wink after John decided to leave. “Without my car to head home I might have a chance of Ms. Hooper driving me back.”

Outside the hotel, he waited for the car to be brought by the valet. The weather had already changed its autumn-like mood for a far colder climate. So the nights bore a crisp air, and he clung to his dark gray suit jacket, hoping to fend off the cool breeze. The black Jaguar XE pulled up at the curb, and John began to doubt if this was indeed a good idea. He had only gotten his driver’s license a month ago, and the car during the driving lessons had an automatic gearshift, not a manual clutch. When the man with his red waistcoat and white button-down shirt handed the car key over, John sighed defeated, ducking his head to climb into the luxurious saloon.

The black leather creaked under his weight as he settled into the seat. He rested his hands on the smooth surface of the steering wheel, taking a moment to recuperate from the loud crowd in the hotel ballroom. The quietness in the car provided a comfortable contrast after closing the door – the world becoming just a mumbling white noise in the background. John smelled the distinct tanning of the leather and ebony wood which revealed the novelty of the sports saloon. Greg had made it a present for himself after he successfully divorced from ex-Mrs. Lestrade. _Maybe a midlife crisis?_ John considered amused and wondered where his own midlife crisis might dwell. He shook his head, huffing a small laugh since he knew very well where it hid. A truth he couldn’t acknowledge aloud. Too long he had deferred and ignored the fact.

He drew a deep breath and engaged the first gear. When he eased off the clutch he realized he had made a mistake. A loud engine noise roared, but the Jaguar failed to set in motion.

“Bugger!” John swore under his breath, treading the clutch pedal as he rowed for the first gear in the center console. Several crackling and creaking noises wounded John’s pride. Before surrendering to his helplessness and hailing a cab instead, John finally managed the first gear and pulled away from the curb.

He found the second gear easier, but not without jerking forward twice as he eased off the clutch again. _Fuck that bite point of those expensive cars!_ He almost bit his tongue at the silent curse when he set the third gear. _Tanks are easier to drive._

At last, the Jaguar drove smoothly over the tarmac. Following the suggestion of the GPS, it would take thirty minutes from the Landmark Hotel to the Shangri-La Hotel where he had booked in for the next week. John still recalled the cobweb of London’s streets of back in the days when he had lived here. A shortcut through SoHo might cut his time by ten minutes.

Unfortunately, the shortcut also required engaging the clutch more often than he would have needed if sticking to the main streets. Thus it happened that near Leicester Square he stalled the engine while rowing into second gear. He made it over the crossing to leave the traffic light behind, but when he shifted gears again he missed the bite point and came to an involuntary halt at the curb. The car behind him honked his reproach as the driver was forced to swing out and drive past John.

“Yeah, I know. I’m a shitty driver.” He gestured flippantly to the other car and shrugged his shoulder. After exhaling another profanity, he turned the ignition key, but beside a jerk forward nothing happened. He tried again, once, twice, three times… “Oh fuck!” His voice got louder at his fueled level of anger. “I can’t fucking believe this!” When the valet brought him the car the man had left the engine running. John swore at the idiocy of his inability to start the engine of this Jaguar.

After another vain attempt, he threw his hands exasperated in the air. He needed fresh air, John decided, to not explode with rage. With the car parked at the curb, the police shouldn’t mind. He fished his mobile out of his jacket, appreciating the brisk wind to cool down his heated temper. Greg might be able to explain him what caused this problem. After scrolling through his newly arranged endless list of contacts, John tapped on the small icon to initiate the call and pressed the mobile to his ear. And then he waited and waited and waited until the police chief’s voicemail came on. With an annoyed groan John rang off, scrubbing a hand over his face.

From the corner of his eyes, he saw someone approaching. By now, midnight had passed, so the streets were nearly empty aside from a few pedestrians, heading for home or the next club. Being one of the few, John suddenly missed the feeling of cold metal at his waistband. For far too long, guns and rifles had been his constant companions. However, when his diagnosis of posttraumatic stress disorder became clear Ella, his therapist, suggested putting the SigSauer 226 aside. Instead, she advised him to trust in humans again. Easier said than done. Although more than a year had ticked away since his return he still couldn’t shrug off the war like an old jacket.

The approaching man was tall, but not too tall. A mop of black curls framed his angular pale face. He looked like he had just stumbled out of one of the clubs on the other side of the street. His long legs were pressed in black skinny jeans, torn at his right knee and at his left thigh. He wore a pair of black boots, the leather on the caps worn and scratched. A matching black leather jacket protected him against the brisk air; the fabric also threadbare with small flakes of leather missing at the elbows and the seams. Altogether the man appeared neat, but the state of his clothes betrayed his obvious lack of money.

“Need help?” A smile greeted John. Between thumb and index finger lingered a cigarette, ash glimmering in the dark.

“Ah, well…” John stuttered, sheepish. “The car won’t start.”

The man inhaled one last drag of his cigarette, the small glow casting enough light to emphasize lush lips in the semi-darkness of the streets. With a flick, he tossed the remnant toward the next drain. “I can have a look if you want me to?”

John’s expression lightened up, “You know about cars?”

“A thing or two,” the leather jacket rustled as the man shrugged his shoulders, “Not much though. But I have a brother who drives the same model.”

_So no mechanic_. John’s shoulders sagged again. “Do you want me to open the hood?”

“If you want to.” Mercurial eyes roved over John.

“What now?” John asked a bit unnerved. “Do you know about cars, or not?”

“I do,” he confirmed, a cheeky smile tugging at his lips. “I just don’t think it has something to do with the engine.”

“Oh,” John looked confused now. _Is that bloke flirting with me?_ A little lost, he flopped into the driver’s seat, searching for the small lever to open the hood nonetheless. His hand frisked under the steering wheel and he bent down for a better view, but detected no lever. As he came up again he bumped his head against the wheel. “Bugger!” His fretfulness returned when his hand ghosted over the back of his skull, wincing at the pain.

“You alright?” The man braced one hand onto the roof of the car, cocking his head to gaze with amused concern at John.

“Yeah,” John self-consciously rubbed his temple. “I just… it’s not my car, you see. I have no idea where to open that bloody hood.”

Lush lips huffed a small laugh which broke the spell for John and a giggle at his own idiocy bubbled up his throat. Bending forward, a dark mop of curls shoved into the car between steering wheel and John. The man’s hand gripped the edge of the driver’s seat to support his balance, dipping John who bumped into the slender frame of a lean shoulder. His other hand searched for the lever beside the center console, but suddenly stopped. “You haven’t stolen the car, have you?” A frown drew deep lines between the man’s brows as he turned his face to John who tasted the sour scent of nicotine ghosting over his lips.

“No,” he husked, startled at the sudden intrusion into his personal space. “It’s my friend’s Jag.”

In the light of the car, the man’s eyes shifted to a pale blue as they scanned John’s features. A few seconds ticked by while John waited for the man to make a decision. “Okay,” he replied eventually, and an audible click announced the opening of the hood.

With a cat-like motion, the man wriggled his tall frame out of the car and walked to have a look at the engine. John stayed in the seat for another minute, rolling his tongue over his lips. _That bloke’s definitely flirting_. This hadn’t happened for quite a while and then mostly with women. Flirtatious advances by men occurred just once in his life and he had given a polite brush-off. He wasn’t gay – at least pretended he wasn’t gay. Sometimes, his body begged to differ, but he chose to ignore it.

After heaving a sigh, he got out of the car and followed the man who bent over the engine, examining several cables with a pocket flashlight. “Found anything conspicuous?” John arched his brows, trying desperately to overlook the exposed strip of creamy skin between a very low hanging skinny jeans and a pushed up leather jacket due to his bent forward pose.

“The car is pretty new.”

_What kind of answer is that?_ John frowned, his eyes involuntarily drifting to the well-shaped arse, hidden beneath the thin layer of coarse fabric. “And?”

“The problem is not the car.” The man pushed himself up, straightening his back, eyes flashing a mischievous spark. “It’s you.”

“Me?”

But before John could ask for a more elaborate explanation, a female voice interjected. “Shezza, what’s going on?”

“Shezza?” An incredulous chuckle bubbled up at the hilarious name and John reaped a reproachful glance from the corner of the piercing blue eyes. Self-conscious, John pursed his lips and instead focused on the origin of the woman’s voice. _Oh!_ She was petite, a natural beauty hidden in cheap clothing. Although she had long dark hair, she had dressed thick wisps up in extravagant waves. A tight-fitting black dress rendered her delicate physique, and she wore a matching pair of high-heeled boots. She had shrugged into a short down jacket, framed with false fur at the neck.

“I’m just helping,” the man shrugged indifferently.

The woman clasped her purse under the arm, her eyes running up and down John before turning her attention back to the man. “Since this is your first day, let me give you an advice: don’t let that Billy see.”

The indifference slipped from Shezza’s face at the mild warning, and he nodded his understanding, gritting his teeth, “Thanks for the advice, Irene.” He dropped her name in a sarcastic drawl to hint at the true meaning beyond the words.

Her sapphire-blue eyes lingered on the tall man in an unspoken demand before they shifted to John again. “Well then, don’t loiter about. Time is money!” With that said, she headed back to the other side of the street where she positioned herself in front of a posh looking club.

John blinked at the awkward situation before realization dawned on him which profession Shezza and Irene pursued. _Oh!_ But a more burning question pressed forward, “Seriously? _Shezza_?”

The man huffed in annoyance, shrugging at the sense and nonsense of his self-proclaimed alias. “Actually it’s Sherlock.”

“That’s… quite a unique name, and way better than _Shezza_ ,” John wrinkled his nose, keeping his snort at bay as he mocked the alias.

“Not everyone needs to know my real name, especially not here.” He nodded his chin toward the club where Irene retained her countenance for possible customers.

“So you deem me not to be one of your clientele when you offer me your real name?” John meant it flirtatious, but cringed at the spoken harshness of the words when he reflected them. “Sorry,” he added. “Didn’t mean to be so blunt.”

Sherlock squinted at John for a moment, examining and scrutinizing his every detail before drawing a sharp breath, “Anyway, there’s nothing wrong with the car.” He turned to unhook the hood and closed the black metal with a thud. “I suppose you haven’t had your driver’s license for long.”

“How did you know?”

“I observe and make my deductions.” He quirked an eyebrow at John. “I saw you leaving the traffic light, stirring the gearshift almost violently to drive on. You’re nervous and completely fail to notice –” he rounded John to point his index finger through the open door to the center console, “– that you are trying to start the engine in third gear, without stepping on the clutch.” A grin tugged at the corners of his mouths at the simplicity of John’s mistake. “You got your driver’s license recently and you learned to drive in a car having an automatic gearshift.”

John’s mouth dropped open, and he scrubbed an embarrassed hand over his face, “I’m such an idiot.”

“Most people are,” despite the austere words Sherlock smiled to ease off the embarrassment.

“I hate driving,” John shook his head in disbelief. “Should have spared the money for the license and instead employed a chauffeur.”

“Do you want me to chauffeur you to your hotel?”

Another frown folded John’s brows, “Why do you assume that I’m staying at a hotel?”

There was that intense stare again, taking John to pieces. Sherlock hid it well behind pleasant smiles and amused grins, but for a second those flirtatious features swept away, betraying something sharp and knowing. “According to your appearance you’ve worked in the army, either in Iraq or Afghanistan. Your posture and movements let me draw this conclusion. When you get in or out of the car you drag your leg a little behind yourself – obviously a former limp, maybe a psychosomatic limp since you don’t show this symptom when you stand or move – so you’ve been injured in war and got psychotherapy after your posttraumatic stress disorder. Your suit’s worth a small fortune, not to mention your wristwatch which is worth more than three thousand quid. You dislike that posh lifestyle, but somehow you’ve struck oil so you don’t mind some conveniences. You’re in London for business otherwise you wouldn’t have chosen the suit with a tie at which you repeatedly tugged, showing your discomfort. But most prominent is your infrequent accent. For sure, you lived in London once for quite a while, but now and then a more northern accent comes forth in certain words. That wouldn’t happen if you were living in London since your return as a hero.”

When Sherlock snapped his mouth shut to let the information sink in, John couldn’t help but gawk at him. “That was… amazing.” _And intimidating, too_. The man read him like an open book and God knows what other secrets he might figure out. John just couldn’t tell which of those two sentiments sent the shivers down his spine which he didn’t regard as entirely unpleasant.

“Do you think so?”

“Of course it was. It was extraordinary; it was quite extraordinary.”

“That’s not what people normally say.”

“What do people normally say?”

“’Piss off.’” A crooked smile played around Sherlock’s lips, belying a flicker of self-consciousness at how people treated him when he deduced them.

But John was all the more intrigued. The man didn’t just look stunning; he also had a very observant and keen mind. Biting his bottom lip, John pondered his incipient interest, eyes flicking to the woman on the other side of the street. “What’d be your compensation for an hour?”

Sherlock’s eyes widened a fraction before he regained his composure, “One hundred quid.”

“Oh wow, that’s quite a fee for a chauffeur,” John mused, arching his eyebrows astonished at the prize.

“You really want me to drive you to your hotel?” Wary eyes squinted at John, yet the sudden tension slipped from his slender frame.

_Oh!_ John realized the ambiguity of his suggestion which painted his ears in a delicate shade of pink. “Yeah, that’s the general idea,” he huffed a sheepish laugh, all the more flustered by his own involuntary insinuation.

“For one hundred British pounds?”

“It’s worth it as long as I get to my hotel at last without further disruptions by the gearshift,” he chuckled at his own idiocy now. “And the lady there,” his eyes darted to Irene once again, “She’ll be pleased with you not having wasted your time with an idiot and his properly working car.”

Sherlock’s eyes followed John’s and lingered for a moment on the woman, his gaze a flicker of contempt. “All right,” Sherlock strode past John to retrieve a small duffel bag which he had put down behind the Jaguar when he had approached John. He tossed the leather bag onto the back seats and slid into the driver’s seat in one elegant move.

Before climbing into the car, John got rid of the bloody dark blue tie, joining company to the duffel bag on the rear seats. He sighed when he sat down, releasing some tension from his bad leg – psychosomatic limp aside – now and then the muscle twinged uncomfortably; particularly when he was reminded by a string of deductions from a stranger. “It’s the Shangri-La at the Shard.”

Sherlock’s brows shot up, “ _Conveniences_ indeed?”

John suppressed a budding grin as he justified his choice, “After the inconveniences of Afghanistan and being shot in Maiwand I indulge myself every once in a while with luxuries.”

“So I was correct.” The baritone sounded smug at the statement which he didn’t frame as a question, and John recognized the proclivity for vanity. The man craved approval of his own intellect.

“Almost,” John massaged his bad leg. “The wristwatch is a fake. Bought it at a bazar in Kandahar and kept it probably due to sentimental reasons.”

“Sentiment?” Sherlock wrinkled his nose in feigned disgust. “Not really my area.”

“Um…” John pondered what to make of the remark.

“There’s always something.”

They drove on, the silence stretching between them, though not uncomfortable. John braced his elbow at the window frame, his chin resting in his hand as he peeked surreptitious glances to Sherlock from the corner of his eyes. The man should be a model with his lean physique and angular features, and on top of that he seemed to be bloody clever. _Then why is he doing this job?_

John shook his head mentally. Although he couldn’t fathom the reasons for selling his own body John hoped that Sherlock didn’t fall prey to false people. Apparently, he didn’t like that Irene-woman. But on the other side, he seemed intelligent enough to avoid such measures if he didn’t want to. _It’s all about choices_. The thought left John hollow, yet a curious mix of bitterness and thrill surged upward through the gray curtain of his memories. They were spiked with a melancholy about options he never considered but ignored.

John’s eyes roved over Sherlock’s alabaster skin, his face expressionless as his look stayed focus on the street. The color of the man’s eyes couldn’t decide between mercurial shades, pale blue or greenish hues according to whatever sparse light suffused the car. From the profile, John saw the straight-edged nose passing over to an elegant philtrum that ended in an opulent-curved bow of plush lips. His gaze lingered there far longer than intended. Involuntarily, a thought popped into his mind. How would they feel? Soft as the lips of the women he had kissed, or would they be different? When he became aware of his musing, he shuddered once, dragging his eyes to his knees, startled at his own reaction and desperate to shake off the notion.

A few minutes later, Sherlock maneuvered the Jaguar into the underground parking garage of the hotel. He retrieved the key from the ignition and dropped it into John’s hand. Turning around, he grabbed his duffel bag along with the dark blue tie from the back seats and tossed the small fabric toward John, “Don’t forget your precious tie.”

John caught the teasing sparkle in the man’s eye, returning a small grin at the innuendo of expensive clothing. “It’s just a tie.”

“Oh, ties can be eloquent,” Sherlock leaned closer in the confinement of the car, his playful smirk back again which had been interrupted by that Irene-woman. “Ties can be so much more than just strangle its wearer.”

The overtly flirtatious behavior pressed the air out of John’s lung as he struggled for any coherent word. “All right,” he swallowed and almost fled the car. Pressing his lips together in the fear of floundering over his own words, John guided them to the elevator which brought them to the hotel foyer.

“My compensation?” Sherlock asked eventually as his customer failed to remember.

“Oh God. Yes, I’m so sorry,” John stuttered the words as he was too caught up in his own self-imposed constraints, following chain of thoughts he rather wanted to cut off. His hand reached into the inside pocket of his jacket to produce a wallet and fished out one hundred pounds. “Thanks for your help.”

Warm skin tingled beneath his fingers as he handed the money over, hidden in a brief discreet handshake. Sherlock nodded and dipped his head to bid his goodbye, his eyes roaming over the expensive interior decoration of the foyer as well as the few people scrutinizing him in his contrasting clothing. Without another word, he gripped the strap of his duffel bag tighter and strode to the glass entrance door.

John’s gaze followed the tall man. After a moment of composing himself, he took a steadying breath and headed for the reception desk.

“Good evening, Mr. Stamford,” he greeted the front office manager, surprised to find him still working at this hour of the night.

“Good evening, Dr. Watson.”

“Did you receive anything for me?” John was expecting an important letter from his company’s lawyer regarding his business in London – an upcoming buyout.

“Yes,” replied the sturdy manager. “A courier service brought a letter two hours ago. A minute please…” he retreated to the room behind the desk to retrieve the letter whereas John casually leaned his hip against the desk, looking to the entrance door. Sherlock was waiting outside, his mobile pressed to his ear. At this very moment, John realized dismayed that he hadn’t given a single thought to how Sherlock would get back to Leicester Square. “Here it is,” Mr. Stamford’s soft voice ripped him from his contemplation, handing John a thick A4 size envelope.

“Thank you,” taking the letter, John nodded and crossed the extensive foyer. Absent-mindedly, his eyes drifted back to the slender frame who shuddered against the cold night air, pulling up the collar of his jacket.

Tapping repeatedly against the envelope in a nervous fashion, John considered his possibilities. His mind raced through situational details that hadn’t even occurred yet, and he swore under his breath for this character trait – a remnant of his father’s education. Harry had never made a fuss about it. He scoffed at his own inability to overcome his concern about his own sexuality. There he was – Sherlock – a chance to be with a man with no further obligations; just a business.

John’s heart leapt into his throat and he gripped the envelope tighter, crumpling the edges. _Nothing has to happen_. He tried to persuade himself, but knew the same instant he wanted _something_ to happen. His tongue rolled over his bottom lip and he took his first step toward the glass door. If he wanted to finally have got things straightened out with himself, John acknowledged, he didn’t want Sherlock to go back to that patronizing woman. The tall man had flirted with him although that behavior might be directed at every potential customer, but for the moment John dismissed the idea. A sense of jealousy settled into his stomach as he remembered the playful smiles and mischievous sparks in those ethereal eyes looking at someone else. _God, I barely know the man_.

No. For tonight he didn’t want Sherlock to go back.

With his sole focus on Sherlock’s slender back, he heard the faint rustling of clothes from the concierge who opened the entrance door for John. The crisp breeze engulfing him at once, pulling him back to reality where he found himself standing behind the tall man. Sherlock still fumbled with his mobile when John appeared beside him. He clicked his tongue annoyed, “Try to get a cab in the middle of a Saturday night.”

_Oh!_ John noticed that he hadn’t even considered to pay his cab back to the club. “Too bad,” he tried for a lighter tone, “Maybe London’s cab companies want you to stay with me a little while longer?”

Sherlock creased his brows, “What do you mean?”

“Um…” John uttered, lost for words. “I was wondering… er… how much you’d take for the whole night?”

Endless seconds ticked by as Sherlock’s eyes held John’s gaze with a mix of curiosity and assessment. “Three hundred quid.”

This time, John was prepared for the sum without blinking an eye. “Okay.”

“I have rules,” Sherlock emphasized before they decided on their verbal contract.

“Course.”

Sherlock let his mobile glide into his jacket pocket, his expression changed for the business, sharp and serious. “No kisses on the mouth. I don’t do any kinky stuff. Condoms are an absolute must. And a _no_ is a _no_.”

When the information sank in, John nodded slowly, though the last rule let him shiver at the implication of experiences that someone might have crossed a line once. “Sure.”

“So this is agreeable to you?”

“Yes.”

The piercing pale blue eyes blinked, softening again as Sherlock bent over. “Then show me your luxury,” his breath ghosted over John’s cheek, painting it in a delicate pink.

“It’s the Westminster Suite.”

“Who would have assumed that?” Sherlock chuckled, following John inside, ignoring prying glances from the few people in the foyer.

The hotel’s elevator was made of burnished chestnut wood, a warm light causing the smooth surface to shine in golden hues. The soft burgundy carpet muffled their steps and engulfed John in an atmosphere of an illusion with Sherlock beside him. He pressed the button for the thirty-seventh floor, Sherlock’s intense eyes scrutinizing his every movement. A shy smile crossed John’s lips as his mouth felt parched, unable to speak. But what should he talk about with the man? They just agreed on a business regarding sexual intercourse, not a date. The fingers of his left hand flexed unconsciously, prompting the paper of the thick envelope to rustle. The noise reminded him of another business he needed to wrap up first.

“This is the first time you’re doing this?” Sherlock’s baritone rumbled deep in his throat, tearing John from his thoughts.

_Damn the man’s observation skills_. John scolded himself, looking at the white paper in his hand. He noticed every little detail, yet his remarks remained rather ambiguous. So John decided for a straightforward honest reply, “Yes.”

“Problem?”

John lifted his gaze to meet those ever-shifting eyes, “No.” He sensed a slight pressure in his ears as the elevator arrived at their destination. A thick red carpet with embroidered beige ornaments lined their way to the hotel suite. John fished a plastic card from the inside pocket of his jacket and opened the door.

Entering, they were presented with an Asian-tinted suite combined with modern furnishing. The richly decorated hallway framed with silken wallpapers depicting flying cranes on a creamy background led them into the living room. With the sun-shielding panels open, the floor-to-ceiling windows provided a stunning view of London – thousands of tiny sparks illuminating the metropolis within the darkness of the night. Their shoes clicked on the bright marble floor. John put the plastic card onto a small dresser in the hallway, watching Sherlock as the man took everything in.

He let his duffel bag slump before walking to the vast window front of the living room, his steps again muffled by a cyan blue carpet. “Amazing,” Sherlock rasped. “I’ve never seen my battleground like this.”

The remark sounded extremely fervent for someone who despised sentiment, and John mused about the odd choice of word for a moment just to let Sherlock marvel at the sight before asking, “You hungry?”

Sherlock turned around, pinning John with an incredulous stare at how John could even think of food while he should enjoy the unparalleled view. “Not really.”

A snicker escaped John at his own foolishness; the man didn’t look as though he ate regularly. “Well, I’m starving. I’m going to order something and then I have to finish this here first,” he lifted the envelope, letting the paper rustle to emphasize his meaning. “It won’t take too long. Eat something, have a drink, watch telly. Make yourself comfortable.”

Before John retreated to the executive writing desk in the separate working area, he glimpsed how Sherlock shrugged out of his leather jacket, revealing a purple Henley shirt clinging to his slender frame. He lounged on one of the ocher-colored sofas facing the window front with a velvety sigh. His arms sprawled out on the top of the backrest as he stretched his body luxuriously, tossing his head back with a smile curling around his lips. “I think I might get used to this, John.”

John’s eyes widened when he realized that he hadn’t introduced himself. “How…” but the broadening grin on Sherlock’s face and the flick of his eyes to the envelope betrayed where he knew John’s name from. “Oh, very clever,” he chuckled, feigning sarcasm.

Sherlock raised his head again, locking eyes with John through the reflection of the vast window front. “John Watson, former army doctor, deployed in Afghanistan and shot in Kandahar, the last great battle involving the British army.” Sherlock spoke the words as if he weighed them on his tongue.

This time John’s features slipped, the mockery gone. “How could you possibly know that I’m a doctor?”

“When you paid me in the foyer I glimpsed an old badge card of St. Bartholomew’s in the side pocket of your wallet. Slight shot in the dark, but it seems that I’m right.” Another smug smile crossed Sherlock’s angular features, and John wasn’t sure whether to be scared or fascinated as a tingle of excitement ran down his spine. He decided for the latter. The man was most interesting, portraying an emotional roller coaster of piercing blue eyes between hiding what lurked beneath the surface and an open craving for appreciation which resulted in his flirtatious behavior. _Alluring_ would be the best adjective to describe this gravitational pull. Although the awareness frightened him a bit, he couldn’t help, but smile back at the mirror image in the window before finally stepping into the study.

He ripped the envelope open, producing thirty pages of a contract which he needed to read before morning. In the evening, he would have a business dinner with the head of Dimmock Enterprises and until then he needed to be well prepared for the upcoming buyout. Heaving a sigh, he shrugged out of his suit jacket, opened the topmost two buttons of his shirt and set to the unwanted assignment – to be the calculable businessman, not the caring doctor anymore.

His work was only interrupted once when the room service brought the ordered dinner. He ate his two cheese sandwiches while reading intently, but over time the lines started to blur and John became aware of the late hour. After pinching the bridge of his nose to chase away the exhaustion, he poured Scotch into an Old Fashioned glass from the crystal ware. When the glass stopper set in place again, he sipped at the golden fluid, enjoying the rich flavor on his tongue and the burning sensation as it ran down his throat. A warm feeling settled in his stomach, reviving his spirit. He finished the rest of the contract in less than ten minutes before signing it with a flourish handwriting. The chair scraped over the soft carpet as John stood up to trudge to the living room, hoping Sherlock hadn’t fallen asleep since it took him longer than expected.

Stopping in the doorframe, he leaned his shoulder against the smooth wood, gazing at the man secretly. Sherlock had kicked off his boots and lay full length on the sofa. On his chest rested a book, opened yet abandoned for the more interesting aspects of the hotel’s interactive television system.

“Really, John?” the baritone boomed across the room, amused, as he switched to the last film John had watched this afternoon. “Spy movies? How dull.” He angled his head, so that he could lock his eyes with John, a playful smirk causing small crinkles to dance around them. However the man knew that John stood in the door?

“An atrocious hobby of mine, I confess,” John shrugged, trying to sound nonchalant and hide his affronted pride.

The film resumed where John had stopped it to get ready for the charity event. Their eyes were glued to the telly for a couple of minutes before John crossed the living room to hand Sherlock a second Old Fashioned, rippling the golden liquid. Sherlock nodded his appreciation and pointed his chin toward the telly. “It’s obvious who’s hired the killer.”

“Don’t you dare ruin the movie for me,” John waggled a finger, good-humored, since he knew the man’s ability of deducing each and everything. Sherlock’s eyes sparkled mischievously before he expressed his rapid-fire complains about the idiocy of the narrative in the film.

John needed to stifle a giggle at Sherlock’s half-played annoyance. He lounged into one of the ocher-colored armchairs and sipped his Scotch with relish, shooting Sherlock surreptitious glances while trying to focus on the film. From the armchair, he got a far better view to Sherlock and could read the title of the book on his chest: “Forensic Psychology”. _How appropriate_.

They watched on in silence and when it became clear who initiated the assassinations John scrubbed a hand over his face. He shook his head in disbelief, snickering at how trash the film truly was.

“See? I told you,” Sherlock murmured, swinging his long legs over the edge of the sofa. The screen returned to the smart TV’s video on demand menu and the room fell silent. Sherlock arched his back, stretching the stiffness off his limbs as he stood on his toes and lifted his arms over his head. A small grunt escaped his throat. John stared at the exposed strip of alabaster skin between trousers and Henley. Only a thin line of dark hair stood out against the pallor from the navel until it ran below the black jeans.

Sherlock caught John gaping at him from the corners of his eyes. His hands dropped back to his sides to stroke along the hem of the shirt. He lifted it a bit and John’s heart leapt into his throat, almost choking on his own thunderous pulse. Sherlock’s eyes locked with John who rolled his tongue over his bottom lip nervously. The man’s expression slipped from amused to sincere in less than a second, lips parted in sultry invitation as he pulled the Henley over his head to leave his black hair in a tousled mess of curls.

John held his breath; not only at the beautiful sight that met his eyes, but also at the imminent step he would take to cross a line which he had repressed for so long. How his body deceived him now. How sweetly his nature deceived him. His cock twitched in anticipation while his stormy blue gaze lingered mesmerized at lithe muscles moving beneath smooth skin.

Sherlock’s narrow hips swayed a bit as he closed the gap to John. Sharp crests of hipbones protruded within a marble landscape until they were obscured by the black skinny jeans hanging obscenely low. He stopped in front of John who had crossed his legs, nudging against the knee. John’s head tipped back to let his gaze rove over the slender torso. The pectorals portrayed only a slightly vaster span than Sherlock’s slim waist, a soft dusting of sparse hair covering the creamy skin.

John felt another nudge at his knee before grasping the hint that he should disentangle them. “Like what you see?”

The question sounded sultry as it rolled deep in Sherlock’s throat, but it also hid a cheeky grin. John unfolded his legs to let Sherlock step between his knees, licking his too dry lips. “Very much.”

Sherlock bent forward and braced his palms on the armrest, looming over John and prodding his knees wider apart. “Remember –” he lowered his mouth to John’s ear, his breath ghosting warm over the reddened shell, “– you’re allowed to touch, but no kisses on the mouth.”

“Yes,” John husked. Helplessly, his hands stayed put on the armrest, too overwhelmed with the situation. Sherlock glided down onto his knees. He was still on eye level with John due to their difference in height. A gentle hand pressed against the inside of John’s thigh to place himself comfortably. Long fingers stroked up until his knuckles brushed against the straining erection hidden beneath several layers of clothing.

John’s breath hitched, arching into the soft touch. A small smile tugged at the corners of Sherlock’s lips. He unbuckled the belt with swift fingers and pulled at the button-down to free the shirttails from the confinement to the waistband. Trouser button and zipper were equally opened with a deft hand.

By the time John’s breathing became shallow and his mind went clouded, he didn’t recognize what Sherlock’s upward pointing index finger meant until the man said, “Lift your arse.”

_Oh!_ John obliged, and Sherlock grabbed at the waistband of trousers and underpants, tugging to shove them down to the shoes in one motion. Closing his eyes, John fought the urge to cover his jutting erection under Sherlock’s scrutinizing gaze. A subtle yank at his hips indicated to John to slide down a bit for better access. When he heard the ripping of a foil he opened his eyes again. The blurry vision of Sherlock unpacking a condom made him realize that this was it – the moment he had strived against for many years, ignoring his own desires. A hysterical huff escaped his mouth at the awareness that his arousal now begged to differ all those former self-denials, already to the point where he wouldn’t last long.

When Sherlock unrolled the latex onto John’s length, a surge of electrifying impulses flashed through his body, causing rippling waves of goose bumps. He bowed into the touch, yet tried at the same time to keep still for Sherlock’s ministration. His head fell against the backrest once again squeezing his eyes shut in anticipation. Sherlock slid down, sitting on his heels and spreading John’s knees further apart to adjust their positions. A large hand shoved his shirt up and gripped John’s right hip while the other hand brushed from John’s inner thigh to his knee. A breath swept over the leg in the opposite direction, humid air and a ghost of lips leaving a trail of sensitized skin. Those two lush lips met the juncture between the leg and John’s pelvis. A shudder ripped through John and he sensed Sherlock’s hand firm on his knee, cupping it to not constrain him in the heat of the moment. Subconsciously, John was surprised that the lean physique hid such a lithe strength.

Sherlock’s lips traced the path to the underside of John’s cock, just to let his tongue dart out and lick a pulsing vein upward. John gasped at the sudden warmth combined with an exquisite pressure along his erection, prompting an equal twitch against the seductive tongue. Sherlock’s hand released John’s knee. Instead, his fingers curled around the base of the shaft as his mouth trailed further upward, lips kissing the flared ridge of the glans. He circled his tongue around the head and dipped the tip into the slit hidden beneath the condom.

“Oh fuck!” John arched into the caress and Sherlock opened his mouth, slipping his lips around John’s cock. Sherlock allowed small thrusts, but refrained John with his hand on the hip from too deep motions. Without recognizing, John’s own hand left the armrest and curled around the back of Sherlock’s head. John didn’t press against the skull, not forcing his wishes upon the man. He wanted to relish the softness of those alluring curls between his fingers and the pressure against his palm as the man moved under the touch.

They found a rhythm when Sherlock hollowed his cheeks to suck him in earnest, taking John in as deeply as he could. He felt the ripples of Sherlock’s soft palate and throat surrounding his leaking head every time he swallowed the gathering saliva. When John’s abdominal muscles flexed, signaling his imminent orgasm, Sherlock flattened his tongue along the underside. He increased the pressure and let John’s cock ride back into his mouth. At each repetition of this sweet torture, he flicked his tongue ever so gently over the frenulum. John’s torso rose and fell with his ragged panting as he sensed the tendrils of pleasure raking up his spine. They sent forth molten blood into his lower abdomen, causing his balls pull tight against his body while Sherlock cupped them and tugged gingerly.

“ _Oh fuck!_ ” John reiterated with much more vigor, unable to form any other coherent word. He was so close and remembered that he wanted to watch Sherlock. A little uncoordinated he lifted his head from the backrest and his eyelids fluttered dreamily open. He looked down his debauched body. The black mop of curls bobbed up and down. Luscious lips stretched around his cock to make him come undone with pure pleasure. _Definitely as soft as a woman’s_. Silly to think of this now, he shook his head in disbelief since it didn’t matter anymore. This was the best blowjob he ever received. Then, at that very moment Sherlock opened his eyes and looked up under long lashes, his pale blue merely an eclipse around blown wide darkness. “Oh…” John’s breath stopped, holding the air in his lung. Hot flames of his climax licked up his body as a deep groan wavered in his throat. Undulating waves pushed him over the edge and drowned him in an uncontrollable current, tinted with the same ice-blue color as the man’s eyes. Sherlock didn’t retreat when the first surge subsided, but sucked once again, gentler, prompting John’s hip to snap forward in a second gush and then a third. He waited until the shocks of the aftermath faded with John’s cock softening against his lips.

After kneeling back, Sherlock produced a tissue from his jeans pocket, retrieving the condom with care to not cause any overstimulation and wiped off the remnants of John’s release. John still panted for breath, slowly coming down from the high of his orgasm, but it didn’t slip his attention that Sherlock was aroused, too. With the condom wrapped in the tissue, the man’s hand covered the bulge in his crotch, adjusting the tight jeans as the zipper pressed hard against his own still straining erection. Sherlock seemed a bit self-conscious about it, John realized, unable to yet speak again.

“Excuse me,” Sherlock got up, the heel of his hand pushing against the bulge in discomfort. He crossed the living room for the hallway where he disappeared in the guest toilet.

Still sitting in the armchair, John scrubbed a hand over his face. _That was intense_. But with Sherlock gone to the bathroom, he suddenly felt hollow. The man was aroused as well, something John hadn’t expected. _What did I expect?_ The question stirred rhetorically. Just a job? A job for the other party to not get aroused? He grunted in disapproval at his own naïve perception. Annoyed, he stood and pulled his trousers up. His egotistical rationality had set his mind on ignoring the fact that he indeed liked the idea of helping Sherlock to get off, too. The realization hit him hard – once again. This night could best be described as life-altering.

After emptying his Scotch, John retreated to the bathroom adjacent to the bedroom. He took a quick shower and brushed his teeth. When he reappeared in the bedroom, clad in gray pajama bottoms and a white t-shirt, Sherlock waited in the door. He was still bare-chested and wore his jeans, only the topmost button of the fly open, indicating what happened a couple of minutes earlier. “I can sleep on the sofa,” Sherlock suggested, a bit uncertain, his thumb pointing over his shoulder to the living room.

John’s eyes widened since he hadn’t thought about sleeping arrangements. He realized that this was the moment where he might amend his former failure. “No,” he cleared his throat and struggled for a sheepish smile. “It’s a king-sized bed. Even two sleeping in there might get lost.” He chuckled, “Come on, there’s enough space for us both.”

A crooked grin lifted the corner of Sherlock’s lips. He pushed himself from the doorframe and crossed the room. In front of the bed, he peeled his long legs out of the skinny jeans, leaving him clad in a snug pair of black boxer briefs.

They slipped under the duvet, confining themselves to the opposing edges of the bed. “See,” John snickered, piling the pillows under his head, “I can barely detect you in the distance of this vast bed.”

Sherlock who laid on his side, cast a look over his shoulder. “Do you want us to cuddle up?”

John hadn’t meant it that way. He just wanted to lighten the tense atmosphere which had built since Sherlock slipped his grasp to return the favor. “Do you want to?” John asked tentatively.

Pale blue eyes fixed on John for a moment, considering the proposal. “No,” came the honest reply, “We’ll wake up in the morning way too warm and sticky with sweat.”

John blinked at the blunt explanation which sounded more like a pretext. But what should he expect? Working in Sherlock’s profession, one couldn’t allow himself to be a romantic. “Goodnight then, Sherlock.”

“Goodnight, John.”


	2. Deal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot to mention in the notes of the first chapter that there is indeed a Westminster Suite in the Shangri-La. So [here](http://www.shangri-la.com/london/shangrila/rooms-suites/suites/westminster-suite/) you can check out what inspired me for the suite.
> 
> As always a huge thanks goes to my wonderful beta [GhostTari](http://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostTari/pseuds/GhostTari).
> 
> And of course thanks for all the kudos and lovely comments! They’re making my day :)

The softness of the mattress embraced his frame while tendrils of sleep still clung to him. He relished those moments where he found himself caught in the world between drowse and wakefulness. Someone who had never experienced war wouldn’t understand this. In Afghanistan, his subconscious never allowed him to fully relax. Tension held a tight grip on his body, ready at any time for a possible attack on their camp. The small bed, hard and uncomfortable, underlined the redundant need for an undisturbed sleep. In those days, he always slept on his back. However, throughout the last year narrow beds vanished for huge king-sized divinely soft mattresses where he could roll onto his side and curl into a cozy ball. When he returned, he kept to the old habits, confining himself to the edge of a bed, ready to jolt up in case he needed to grab his gun. They diagnosed posttraumatic stress disorder and everything in his life fit with this behavioral disorder. Slowly, he got used to the peaceful surroundings, forcing his mind and body to understand that the nervous strain became unnecessary. And as months ticked away, the nightmares faded as well as his psychosomatic limp. Only occasionally did his past catch up with him.

But not today.

A disapproving grunt wavered in his throat, commanding his brain to return to the blissful state of dreams. It didn’t help. His conscious mind pushed him over the edge to wakefulness. He rolled onto his back and stretched the stiffness off his limbs.

Faint warmth kissed his fingertips. The blurry images of slumber still confined his consciousness to the farthest corner of his mind. Unable to detect from where that warmth originated from, he flexed his dominant hand at the tingling sensation and his pads brushed along smooth skin. _Oh!_ Pieces of memory drifted back from his subconscious. A pleasant fluttering settled in his stomach. It was too long since he had shared a bed with someone. He hadn’t tried dating again after his divorce. The heat propelled a curious tickle, causing a shiver to spiral down his spine. He rolled on his side in search of more warmth of the smooth skin when realization snapped him back to the hotel suite, eyes fluttering open to look at the alabaster skin of a man – not a woman. _Oh!_

Sherlock hadn’t moved since he lay down. Still facing the edge of the bed with hunched shoulders, he clung to the duvet in some inexplicable sort of protection. John blinked and withdrew his hand from the other man’s neck. While Sherlock remained curled up like the night before, John had tossed his way toward the middle of the bed as part of his new-found habit. He watched the even deep breathing of the other man, implying that Sherlock was still sound asleep.

Still blinking the dreamy haze of subconscious away, John beheld the bright glow framing the thick curtains of the window front. The gleam betrayed the late morning hour with the sun already risen, promising another bright pre-winter day. The semi-darkness of the room prompted once again an involuntary magnetic pull of John’s eyes to the contrasting pallor of Sherlock’s exposed shoulder. For a long moment, John simply stared at Sherlock, waiting for a personal epiphany of self-awareness. But it failed to happen. He had been with a man and somehow expected this to be life-altering, yet he didn’t feel any different. John dragged his eyes to the wallpaper above the bed, a beautiful portrayal of branches of cherry blossoms in golden and silvery hues. Why should it be life-altering when it had already been a part of him throughout his whole life? He was still John Hamish Watson, and not someone his father tried to dictate him.

Beside him, a movement dragged him back from his thoughts. Sherlock stirred, turning on his back and letting one arm fall over his head. A soft groan evaporated into the air. The duvet slid down a bit, exposing the marble-white landscape of his ribcage. John could easily count each rib, suppressing the urge to reach out and trail a finger along the distinct up and down. He needed to ensure that Sherlock would have breakfast before departing.

_Departing?_ Churned up, his stomach tightened in knots. Acknowledging emotions was never easy for him, yet he recognized his reluctance to let Sherlock go. He couldn’t tell where that feeling arose from. Just because the man gave him the best blowjob ever didn’t explain his indecision. He enjoyed one-nighters before, with women, but he never had a problem to leave them the next morning. The heels of his hands dug into his eyes, rubbing the last remnants of sleep away, hoping to clear his mind. For sure, Sherlock was fascinating and entertaining in a unique way. His deductions rendered him an intimidating yet interesting man. Such qualities might come in handy, but they were rather wasted in his particular profession.

The alarm of his mobile interrupted his train of thoughts and John sat up with a start. “Shit,” he whispered, turning off the alarm. In an hour, he had the appointment with his corporate lawyer. This promised to be a long day. He slumped onto his belly, burying his face into the pillow to stifle his annoyed groan.

When he emerged from the white cloud of soft cotton, a pair of mercurial eyes gazed at him with amused curiosity. “Good morning.”

“Sorry,” John propped himself onto his elbows. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

Sherlock raked his fingers through a tousled mess of black curls and shrugged. “I couldn’t have asked for more. The bed is way softer than mine.”

John huffed a small laugh, remembering his own comparison a few minutes earlier. He sighed, “I have a meeting later. I’ll order us breakfast.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“No, it is. I already neglected to get you a cab last night. Please, let me amend my thoughtlessness.” John pushed himself up and swung his legs reluctantly over the edge of the bed.

“Can I use your bathroom?”

“Sure.” John trudged to the walk-in closet while Sherlock arched his back, luxuriously stretching his body.

The closet contained several suits, dangling from hangers. He needed to attend two meetings today; one with his lawyer and one in the evening with the CEO of a prestigious corporation based in London. Harold Dimmock Senior had founded his company thirty years ago, but failed to keep up with the times and due to his financial mismanagement he had lost most of his stocks. Rumors came up that Dimmock had declared bankruptcy which should facilitate the buyout without causing trouble.

John decided on a dark gray three-piece suit and a deep blue tie to match the colors of his eyes. _The stranglers of the wealthy,_ he thought and snorted a laugh at Sherlock’s wording. From a drawer, he retrieved underwear and took the clothes to the guest toilet. On his way, he scooped the hotel phone and called the room service to order breakfast.

Once in the guest toilet, he realized that his shaving kit was in the bathroom. Cursing under his breath, he checked the necessity of a shave. His fingertips brushed over tiny stubbles. Shoulders sagging, he acknowledged that a shave was vital. So he shuffled back to the bathroom, his hand hovering in front of the door, ready to knock. Since he met Sherlock, there remained an element of a barrier between them; a feeling Sherlock carefully established. As flirtatious the man could be as calculating and distant he stayed – a notion that had intensified since he disappeared into the guest toilet the night before. John got the impression that somehow this was his fault. Oh, for God’s sake the man had swallowed his dick just a few hours ago. _Stop that nonsense, Watson_.

He cleared his voice and knocked finally. “Sorry to disturb, but I need my shaving kit.”

“Come in.” Hot and humid air enveloped John as he entered the bathroom. The mirror was fogged when he fetched the kit from the cabinet, the humidity causing his shirt to cling to his body. A green tiled wall obscured the shower stall in the far corner of the room. Before leaving the too hot bathroom, John heard Sherlock turn off the tap. “Pass me a towel?”

John’s eyes widened at the intimacy Sherlock suddenly didn’t seem to mind. “Sure,” he mumbled and grabbed a bath towel from the cabinet under the sink as Sherlock appeared in his peripheral view. Gripping his shaving kit tighter, John tried not to stare and tossed the towel toward Sherlock.

The man let the terry fabric fly over his body and rubbed the dark cloud of hair dry before wrapping it around his hips. “You can shave here. I don’t mind sharing the bathroom.” A playful tone underlined the baritone, declaring the comeback of the flirtatious Shezza.

Hot blood trickled down his spine. All of a sudden, he wanted to yank that damn towel from Sherlock’s hips and press him against the tiled wall. _So much for taking it slow with my suppressed sexuality_. Instead, he took a deep breath, inhaling humid air which heightened the heat flaring through him. “Thank you, but that would be counterproductive as I would need a shower afterward. Unfortunately, I don’t have the time.” Sherlock’s lips parted at the apparent ambiguity and a smirk stretched across his face. So far, Sherlock had dropped all the teasing insinuations while John was the one who responded. Turning to go, John hid his smug smile but halted in the door, a sudden flow of inexplicable emotions flooding his mind. “Do you have any appointments the upcoming week you must attend?”

Sherlock’s eyes crinkled amused at the unspoken proposal he obviously had already deduced. “No.”

“What’d you say if I book you for the whole week?” John swallowed, waiting for an answer. He knew that Sherlock’s behavior – every movement, every husked word – deliberately aimed at seducing John so to keep him and pay for his service. But John wanted more. Sherlock wasn’t just a prostitute; not just a puppet to please somebody’s needs. No, he held skills worth more than any lawyer John paid. So he had considered making Sherlock part of his life for the next week before he fell asleep last night. “I mean, not only for the evenings, but also as an escort service. Your deductions might help me to read and comprehend the people I have to deal with in my upcoming buyout.”

“As a consultant?” Sherlock raised one eyebrow, hesitant.

John hadn’t thought about it that way. “Sort of.” A mischievous grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. “With the addition of sex.” Sherlock’s eyebrow drew even higher at the blunt proposition. Without doubt, John became more confident. Water dripped from dark curls as Sherlock cocked his head in a feigned gesture of weighing the proposal. “Oh, come on,” John laughed at the drama.

“Three thousand pound.”

John would have paid any price at this moment, but he kept that little secret to himself. His grin grew wider, “Deal.”

Sherlock’s eyes sparkled in a mix of playfulness and danger – a perfect display of the two sides the man portrayed for John whereas in-between of those two extremes Sherlock remained illegible. “Deal,” he echoed and loosened the towel around his hip to rub his still dripping curls once again. Hastily, John turned around and almost fled the bathroom, arousal coiling in his lower abdomen. He really needed to be on schedule. This was an important day.

As if programmed, he performed his morning duties, brushing his teeth and shaving his stubble. All the while, he more or less successfully blocked out the last image of Sherlock. Clad in the three-piece suit, John strived after a decent knot of his tie as he went to the walk-in closet to retrieve a pair of matching gray leather shoes. Crossing the living room, he found Sherlock rummaging in his duffel bag. The man seemed wary about John seeing what he was doing and tried to hide a small silver object in his hand.

“Was that a syringe?” John asked.

Sherlock faltered and vexation along with a sense of vulnerability painted his expression. “It’s not what you think.”

John invaded Sherlock’s personal space, irritation creeping up his spine. He couldn’t understand people who ruined their lives with drugs, especially people he asked to stay with him for the week. His zero-tolerance policy on prohibited drugs was fueled by the connotation that Sherlock sold his body to buy drugs. Disappointment pressed on his chest, cold and unrelenting, as he snapped, “What is it then?”

Sherlock bit his bottom lips, uncomfortable with his exposure. “I’m a diabetic. As a matter of fact, diabetes mellitus, insulin dependent.” He retrieved a small kit from his bag, revealing a glucometer and a syringe. “It’s not that bad, but I haven’t eaten for a while and I wanted to be sure.”

John drew a sharp breath. “Oh my God, Sherlock, I’m so sorry,” he scrubbed a hand over his face, embarrassed at his own prejudices. As a physician, he should have considered all the medical facts, but with Sherlock’s profession he fell prey to his own biases.

“It’s okay.”

“I fucked it up.” John pinched the bridge of his nose and screwed his eyes up at his own humiliating accusation.

“It’s obvious that people who meet me deem me an addict,” Sherlock’s voice cut like a razor-sharp blade, conveying exasperation, but it wasn’t directed at John. “And they are right. I am an addict.” At this, John’s eyes snapped to the other man, confusion furling his brows. “But I’ve been clean two years now. Yet I’ll always be an addict.”

“I haven’t thought of you being an addict. I just spotted the syringe, and …” _I came to the wrong conclusion_. He struggled to find the accurate words. “Drugs… alcohol… I’ve seen too many people abusing this shit.”

Sherlock put the kit back into his bag. “Your family?”

“My mother and sister, yes.”

John’s reply conveyed a finality, an emphasizing undertone of disapproval which he didn’t want to elaborate. So Sherlock dropped the subject when he pushed himself up and grabbed John’s dark blue tie. The silky fabric slid languorously from his neck into large hands. “Shall I strangle you?”

The sudden turnabout of the topic into idiotic conventions of society prompted John into an outburst of laughter. He was glad that Sherlock didn’t insist on an explicit answer, testing the water which John didn’t want to explain. A warm feeling spread in John’s chest as Sherlock’s personal revelation settled in, a pride that he had attained to stay clean. “I thought you’re not into the kinky stuff,” he teased, chuckling.

Sherlock ignored the innuendo and wrapped the tie around John’s neck, but John could see how the man fought to stifle a giggle. With deft hands, Sherlock created a ribbon to bind the tie in a classic half-Windsor knot. The sudden closeness made John light-headed. He smelled his own shower gel on the man, and a small sensation in his mind displayed some unfamiliar kind of possessiveness. His left hand flexed at his side, an effort to refrain himself snatching those narrow hips and pulling him into a tight embrace to taste that familiar fragrance mingled with Sherlock’s natural scent.

“Later,” Sherlock’s breathed promise tickled against his ear. “Or you’ll be late.” John sensed a cheeky grin ghosting over his shell, a silent reasoning of teasing sarcasm.

Of course, his _consultant_ could read him like an open book. John rolled the tip of his tongue over his bottom lip, a grin curling around his mouth. “I hate you,” he said without meaning it. With a small jerk at his collar bones, the knot sat in place, and John searched Sherlock’s praise seeking eyes but found half-closed lids over pale blue, delved deep in thought. The man was more than unreadable for John as he held no deductive skills, yet behind that cool façade he detected something sad, even regretful now and then. “Penny for your thoughts?”

Sherlock snapped back to reality, eyes drifting to the knot, ignoring John’s question. “Perfect.” He nodded once and flopped onto the sofa before unfolding the newspaper.

While Sherlock skimmed the articles for any interesting facts, John fetched his shoes, the gray leather just a shade lighter than his suit. The room service brought their breakfast, but John realized that he wouldn’t be on time and decided to skip it for a business lunch.

“I really need to go now,” John looked at the scrambled eggs and the toast with envy, allowing himself at least one cup of coffee. Producing his wallet, he took several notes and placed them onto the coffee table. “Thousand quid for new clothes. I have a meeting in the evening that I want you to accompany me as my PA. Therefore –“ John waved his hand toward the money, “– I want you to pick a nice suit and whatever else you need.”

Sherlock lowered the newspaper to his lap, frowning. “Is there a dress code?”

“Not that I know of. It’s rather smart casual. We don’t even need to leave the building. The restaurant is in the thirty-first floor.” John checked his black leather briefcase that he hadn’t forgotten anything of importance. “I wrote my mobile number on a notepad. It’s on the dresser in the hallway. We have a reservation on my name for the restaurant. I’ll pick you up from the bar there at seven.”

John noticed the tension creeping up his spine as it did every time he left for his work, but Sherlock smiled and a part of the pressure seeped away. “I’ll be there.” A promise that stood for support, and for the first time, John looked forward to having a business dinner. For the first time, he didn’t feel alone.

***

Kitty Riley was smart, sharp-tongued and ambitious – sometimes too ambitious for John’s taste. She had studied in Cambridge and had a doctorate in law. Although John should be glad to have her working for his company he didn’t like her measures. The young woman had no qualms about crushing other people, and John was sure if she received a more profit-yielding job offer Kitty wouldn’t hesitate to leave.

They met in a restaurant near London Bridge. Kitty’s eyebrows arched in astonishment at her breathless and late boss. Usually arriving first, he waited with an already ordered plate of appetizer for them. John apologized and caught up on the order before producing the thick contract he had read with a blurred vision the night before.

After the usual courtesies of small talk while indulging bruschetta, they started working through the contract. “You are currently holding a twenty-five percent share of Dimmock’s company, but despite your assets we’ll be safer performing a leveraged buyout with a bank loan.”

“Why? Two weeks ago you said my equity would be sufficient.” John sipped at his glass of water, frowning at the concept.

Kitty smiled, trying to convey assurance, but John seldom believed her friendliness. “Because there’s another company involved as of last week.”

“What?” Since John had inherited his parents’ company, his main focus stayed on real estate management with a focus on property. His father initiated buyouts on a regular basis whereas John had carried out such an endeavor only once during the time as head of the company. Cautiously, he took care to be the only shareholder apart from the actual management of the firm.

Kitty put a strand of hair behind her ear. “Yeah, it’s just a small company, a mere nobody, but they bought ten percent of the share.”

John leaned forward, folding his hands on the table. “Ms. Riley,” he reasoned. “What if this nobody works together with Dimmock?” This small company could add their share to Dimmock’s and thus the other businessman would hold the majority again.

“That’s why the leveraged buyout with the bank loan. It’s less risky, and we wouldn’t lose much money if the plan backfires.”

“We’re talking about my family’s assets, and I won’t risk it like this,” he pressed his palms tightly together, anger lurking under the surface at the indifference of his lawyer. “My company doesn’t serve as a career jump for your ambitions, Ms. Riley.”

The young woman huffed in annoyance, her eyes betraying her anger when she averted them to glare at the contract. “All right,” she sighed exasperated after a while. “You have dinner with Dimmock tonight, right? Try to find out what’s going on. Put on your poker face as if you don’t know what’s happening in the background and play a smug self who wants to buy this company at all cost.” She waited to watch John’s expression and added after a short pause, “And then make your decision. Dimmock Enterprises would gain you thirty million pound as well as traction into London, and that’s not my career jump… it’s _yours_ – to establish yourself in this business nationwide and become indispensable.”

John swallowed the words, let them sink in. He neither cared to establish his reputation nor become indispensable. His company yielded enough revenue to pay the rent and so much more. He didn’t want to be materialistic, but as much as he hated it to acknowledge, Kitty was right to a certain degree. Most of his company contained a great deal of property and if he wouldn’t take steps to accumulate his estate as a precaution he might become the next Dimmock struggling to keep his stock until a bigger company might snap up his firm.

Once the main course had been served, they delved into the details of the contract. Kitty shared that she had arranged an appointment with their bank in the afternoon which shattered John’s hope of relaxing a bit before attending the meeting in the evening. After an hour of intent listening, John’s mobile buzzed. Fishing it out of his trouser pocket, he blinked at the name – Sherlock. His heart leaped into his throat, and Kitty’s voice mingled with the surrounding’s sounds, dissolving into white noise as John opened the text message.

_The idiocy of social norms verges on ridiculously disdainful behavior. – Sherlock_

John frowned at the message, unable to understand the meaning beyond the words.

_What’s going on? – John Watson_

_Those cretins in that posh men’s wear departments regard themselves as socially superior and refuse to sell me any clothing. – Sherlock_

John looked at his mobile, speechless. How could people be so prejudiced? His mind raced in search of a solution as the buzzing announced another message.

_Prada wouldn’t even let me in. The security guard was very rude. – Sherlock_

_I’m so sorry. Just give me a minute. I’ll think of something. – John Watson_

_Don’t apologize. It’s not your fault. – Sherlock_

“Mr. Watson?” Faintly, he heard Kitty’s irritated voice. She had caught that John’s attention concentrated on his mobile rather than on her juridical explanations.

“I… um…” he rubbed his neck and pointed with his thumb over his shoulder to the front door. “I have to make a call. Won’t take long.”

With that said, he rushed to the door, already dialing the number of the hotel. He just hoped not to exceed the limit of affability.

After the usual flow of greeting and naming on the other end of the line, John spoke up. “Mr. Stamford, this is John Watson.”

“Oh, Dr. Watson. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

John paced the pavement back and forth in front of the restaurant, suddenly lost at how to elucidate his request. “I have a friend… um…” he struggled to amend his wording, “I mean my private assistant. You may have seen him last night?”

A short pause at the other end of the line implied Mr. Stamford straining his memories. “Oh, you mean the man with the duffel bag. I thought he was…”

“My PA.” John interrupted the hotel manager’s reasoning before he came to his own conclusions.

“I see.”

“He… um… his suitcase got lost on the airport,” John fibbed, uncomfortable at the obvious lie. “We have an important business meeting tonight, and as it is, in his casual wear no one would let him into the shops. So I was wondering if you could help him out with a recommendation.”

A small silence stretched between them as Mr. Stamford considered the implied question. “Indeed, I do know someone who might help your PA. A friend of mine owns a tailor shop. It’s not far from the hotel. Just tell your assistant to come to me when he returns.”

“I will. Thank you so much, Mr. Stamford.”

“My pleasure, Dr. Watson.”

When John rang off, he texted the instructions to Sherlock, hoping that everything would now proceed with no further incidents. He walked back to the table where Kitty Riley awaited him with a questioning look. “What was that about?” They had reached an agreement that during their meetings they wouldn’t allow any disruption except in case of absolute necessity.

“I…” John stopped, considering whether he should tell Kitty about his unusual meeting the night before. “I’m not going to go alone to the meeting tonight. I’ve met someone. He has some very observant skills which might be helpful in reading Dimmock’s body language.”

“He?” Her eyes bored into John, curious and wary, “Where did you meet him?”

Knowing Kitty’s nature and suspicion, John sensed her hidden intention. “It’s not what you think. He’s no spy whatsoever. I’ve met him after the charity event last night.”

“Are you out of your mind? Have you researched him?”

“No.”

“John,” they seldom used their first names with each other apart from exhausted reasoning. “For all you know, he could be a spy sent by Dimmock.”

“No, he isn’t,” John leaned closer over the table, considering to tell Kitty the whole truth. “He’s providing some sort of escort service.”

Kitty’s eyes widened at the notion, a rare surprised expression flickered over her face before she regained her composure. “An escort?”

“As I said,” John defied his rising discomfort at the probing eyes of his lawyer. “He’s brilliant, uses deductions to read other people like a profiler.”

“So you’ll take him along to see if Dimmock’s hiding something?”

“Exactly.”

“And then?”

John realized that her question aimed at the events following the business dinner. “That’s private, Ms. Riley.”

“I just didn’t know that you were –“

But before she could end her sentence, John raised a hand to stop her train of thoughts. “It’s none of your business.”

In the end, she relented and accepted John’s explanation, reassured that the other man didn’t work for Dimmock. Their attention riveted back on the contract. Kitty expounded that they would buy the firm and then sell it off piece by piece. John looked at the small lines of letters, a dull throbbing manifesting behind his temples. The plan to sell on the firm’s properties was Kitty’s idea. If John had his way he would keep the firm with its employees. It would make less profit, though, but at least the people would hold their jobs. They discussed his objection at the beginning when they first talked about the buyout together with Harry. As it were, Harry and Kitty outnumbered him. _Never flog a dead horse._

***

Shortly before seven, John fought against the pressure in his ears as the elevator took him to the thirty-first floor of the Shard. His shoulder rested against the burnished wood, trying to relax his tense muscles. The afternoon in the bank was tedious and exhausting. Kitty had been well prepared when the bank asked about their concept. Dimmock Enterprises contained two vast properties with several warehouses. The company possessed nearly ten river cargo vessels along with two cranes and numerous trucks for the inland transport. For the most part of the vessels and cranes, John had already found buyers overseas. The bankers would be idiots not to invest in the project.

Sighing, John coaxed some tension off his body. He focused on the small tingling sensation settling in his stomach at the prospect of seeing Sherlock again. The man hadn’t texted another message, so John assumed that Mr. Stamford might have been able to help out.

John shook his head in disbelief at his own mental imagery, a smile curling around his lips. He wasn’t going on a date, but a business dinner he reminded his inner self. When the doors opened, a faint susurrus of guests in the plush restaurant engulfed John and he took a fortifying breath, steeling his mind. After he announced his name to the maître d’, the man explained that Mr. Dimmock arrived with his son ten minutes ago and that his PA awaited John at the atrium bar.

He thanked and followed the direction to the bar, wondering why Harold Dimmock Junior attended the meeting as well. So far as John had been informed Dimmock’s son lived in the States, working as a criminal defense lawyer. He frowned at the misinformation and definitely needed to have a word with his sister since she bore responsibility to watch every step Dimmock made. Failing to notice the return of his son could provoke a misstep.

Another vast window front greeted John. Thousands of tiny white dots sparkled along the skyline while twilight painted the city in dark purple hues. His gaze roamed to the bar where only a few guests had taken a seat at this hour. The dim ambient light illuminated two mercurial eyes, ripping John from his worried thoughts. He sensed the ever-shifting gaze like a gravitational pull, draping over him with a soothing atmosphere of comfort and encouragement as he drew closer.

Despite John’s own arrogant role he must play in public to maintain his image, he smiled as he strode toward Sherlock who sipped at his gin and tonic, the crinkles around his eyes betraying an equal smirk. John took a seat next to Sherlock, one elbow bracing at the corner of the bar. “I see that Mr. Stamford has an exquisite taste in fashion.”

“Mr. Stamford’s friend,” Sherlock corrected. “Luckily, she had a fitting suit in store.”

John’s eyes roved over Sherlock’s elegant appearance. The man wore a black two-piece suit with a white dress shirt which clung to his slender frame. The two topmost buttons had been left open, so John could enjoy the view of sharp collarbones. “Did they have no ties in store?”

“They did,” Sherlock wrinkled his nose in feigned disgust. “They even forced me into buying one.” A grin widened on his face as he leaned closer to John, his breath ghosting over John’s cheek, “But I refused to wear it since I said that I’m not into the kinky stuff.”

John burst into a hearty laugh, never breaking their eye contact. _God, this dinner will end either very embarrassing with all these insinuations or very enlightening with Sherlock’s observant skills_. Amused, John’s laughter subsided into a snicker and he took a sip from Sherlock’s long drink, the last remnants of his tension fading. He swallowed the slight burn of the gin pouring hotly down into his stomach. “The maître d’ said that Dimmock and his son have already arrived.”

“I believe so,” Sherlock’s flirtatious behavior vanished and a stern business-like attitude suffused his posture as he squared his shoulders, becoming the PA he should play-act. His eyes narrowed at John, “You haven’t anticipated this. Dimmock Senior was supposed to come alone?”

“Yes,” John’s gaze darkened at the knowledge of being caught off-guard.

“Quid pro quo, I’d say as they don’t know that you’re bringing me along, too.” Sherlock steepled his hands under his chin as he considered his warning, “Be careful, John. Dimmock came in all self-confident, but underneath his pretentious exterior he’s hiding that his suit jacket is missing a button at his pocket and his dress shirt has a small dried-up stain at the collar, indicating his clothes are worn. He can’t afford new bespoke suits. That’s why he decided to wear rather an old one than an off-the-peg, hoping no one would notice his pragmatism. Unlike his son who’s not playing the confidence. Under his composed expression hides sort of irritation and despair. A man who has nothing to lose can become dangerous. They know more than you might want to concede to them.”

John nodded, letting the information sink in. Of course Dimmock had been informed about the third company. “Thank you.” Some stiffness snuck back up his spine at Sherlock’s foreboding. But with the man beside him, John felt more self-assured about the dinner. “Speaking of which, how shall I introduce you.”

Sherlock considered the answer for a second before he replied, “Sherlock Holmes.”

After entering the private dining room, they exchanged small courtesies as well as wary glances toward the additional guests. Harold Dimmock Senior was in his mid-sixties. Short gray hair framed his angular face where weathered lines betrayed his age. He studied John and Sherlock with a scrutinizing glare before sipping at his glass of water. When he put the glass down, his hazel eyes bored into John’s. “So young man, I understand you are trying to take over my company.”

For a moment, the abruptness of the blunt statement startled John, but he regained his composure quickly. By now, he had gathered enough experience in this business how to handle a chip of the old block. Dimmock felt superior due to his age which was his first mistake because people like him tended to underestimate people like John. “Please don't patronize me, Mr. Dimmock. Our ages mean nothing here.”

John spoke with a serene voice, but the undertone implied a mild warning not to look down on him. It displayed the same poise he acted in Afghanistan. His muscles tensed, shoulders broadening to appear taller and straightforward, lips pressed to a thin line forming a false smile. All in all, he appeared menacing decorated with friendliness. Father and son glanced at each other, taken aback at the directness.

Dimmock Junior took the floor. “Mr. Watson, we know you've purchased at least twenty percent of our stock. We also know you plan to file a formal bid for a majority share.”

“Twenty-five percent,” John corrected, ignoring that the man was well informed; more than he should. Once again, he scolded mentally at Harry for not doing her job accordingly. He kept his smug expression, voice cutting sharp like a razor blade. From the corner of his eyes, John saw Sherlock shooting him indifferent glances, but he understood the man better by now that John’s performance indeed impressed Sherlock and amused him likewise.

“Mr. Watson, I built Dimmock Enterprises myself. I know every man who ever worked there by his first name. I know their wives... and their children. If your intention is to take over my company and turn it into a glorified real estate deal, think again.” John held Dimmock’s gaze, unflinching, before he took his salad fork to impale a cherry tomato. Reluctantly, Sherlock followed his suit but rather poked the vegetable across his plate whereas his eyes now and then snapped to both Dimmocks.

“What do you suggest, Mr. Dimmock?” The older man had stressed the sole aspect John hated about buyouts. Without doubt, people would lose their jobs. Dimmock’s employees, as well as their families, were affected by the deal. This could mean their personal bankruptcies when they didn’t find a new job. Unlike his employees, Harold Dimmock would file for bankruptcy relating to his business, but with the private stocks paid out and its dividends he would still have a comfortable life with minor austerities compared to his current life.

“What would it take to buy our stock back? Name your price.”

“To get me in a mood to sell –“ John had predicted that this question would arise, “ – double what I paid.”

“But your company doesn't have enough capital right now to buy anything.” Sherlock’s velvety baritone drew everyone’s focus to the slender man who put his salad fork down, the vegetable untouched.

The light brown eyes of Dimmock’s son pierced into Sherlock who hadn’t spoken a word until now. “We're on the verge of closing a large navy contract,” he explained, his eyes studying Sherlock as if he saw him for the first time. “Double is ridiculous, but we can assure you a healthy profit on your share. We would give you a promissory note...”

“You're not getting any navy contracts,” Sherlock interrupted. Without blinking an eye, he tossed the truth at the other man’s face, ignoring his stunned expression.

“There's no way you could know that,” Dimmock Jr. suspiciously narrowed his eyes at Sherlock, confusion furling his brows while John watched with interest the verbal exchange.

“But we do know,” Sherlock leaned back in his chair, legs crossing under the table. “We also know your lines of credit are over-extended. If Mr. Watson doesn't buy your company, someone else will...” The door to the room opened and two waiters appeared – one to clear the table and the other to serve the main course. “Ah, the lamb,” Sherlock said with mock glee when a plate decorated with two small racks of lamb surrounded by seasonal vegetables were placed in front of each guest.

John waited until the waiters left the room again before addressing the older businessman. “Mr. Dimmock, I'm not here to sell you my stock. On the contrary, I'm here to buy yours.”

The color of Dimmock’s face changed to a scarlet shade as he held John’s stare, “You've got a lot of nerve.”

“No,” John grabbed the cutlery. “What I have is a lot of money.” Sometimes, his own snobby play-acting startled John. The business expected from him to be coldhearted and unmoved by other people’s fate, but his last words made him cringe inwardly. Wouldn’t he have his family’s inheritance, he would still live in a bedsit with just the small income of his pension.

“I know all about your father and you, Mr. Watson.” The older man spat his name, disgust written all over his face. “When you buy companies, they have a way of disappearing. Even the pension funds are stripped clean. The last three companies your family took over were cut up in so many pieces, widows were left without their retirement checks.”

John sensed Sherlock’s curious gaze at him. A slight tingle of fear crept up his spine that Sherlock might receive a different picture of him now that he observed the other side of John Watson. “What my father or I did with those companies was perfectly legal.”

“I don't question the legality of what you do,” angry now, Dimmock gripped the edge of the table, white knuckles contrasting the dark mahogany wood. “It's your morality that makes me sick. I will not allow my company to be raped by a man like you.”

As much as John tried for a calm poise as involuntary the older man’s emotions dragged him down into his own furious explosion. “It is not _your_ company. It's a _public_ company. And I am going to acquire it. Either I buy from the other stockholder, or I buy from you.” From his peripheral view, John could see Sherlock’s glacial eyes boring into him, apparently deducing John to pieces right now. Perhaps it wasn’t such a good idea of letting collide his two worlds with Sherlock. Certainly, the tall man with his unique skills would lose any respect now he might have held for John despite paying for his service. “I would suggest that you and your board cooperate with me –“ his voice got calmer again as John regained his composure over his disappointment, “ – rather than fight a battle you don't have the ammunition to win.”

Both men glared at each other for a while, silence stretching in the room when Dimmock spoke up. “Harold,” he looked first at his son, then addressed Sherlock, “Mr. Holmes, if you would excuse us. I’d like to talk to Mr. Watson alone before I leave.”

Harold Dimmock Jr. reluctantly stood up, waiting for Sherlock to follow suit. A questioning look flickered across Sherlock’s face, but John nodded his consent to the older man’s request.

When the door clicked shut John took a deep breath, the dinner all but forgotten. “We can reach an understanding on this.”

“I don't think so,” Dimmock gritted his teeth. “You should know we're going to fight you with every resource we have.”

Somehow, this aroused a suspicion in John that those words didn’t just contain a hollow promise which reminded him of the third stockholder. “Do what you have to do. I don't take it personally.”

“I do,” the older man pushed himself up, the chair scraping over the dark parquet. “I take it all very personally.”

Dimmock fastened up his suit jacket, lifting his chin in defiance as he departed from the room while John stayed in his chair. The emptiness of the room crushed down on him, a dense and constricting impression. He looked at the untouched food, the antagonism of people starving in Afghanistan popped into his muffled mind. A pressure on his chest forced the air out of his lung until it was all gone. He closed his eyes, counting to quieten his inner turmoil before pushing his mind to overcome his physical reaction due to past images blurring with the reality. Not until then, he opened his mouth to breathe slowly in. “And that's the way the game is played,” he whispered to the empty room.

After a while, a waiter appeared and asked if he should serve the dessert, but John declined, asking for the check. He drained his champagne flute, the sparkle on his tongue invigorating him from his lethargic misery.

Assuming to find Sherlock at the bar, he meandered past tables surrounded by people enjoying their luxury dinner but stopped mid-stride as he beheld his _PA_ with Harold Dimmock Jr. having a short drink.

Live music started to fill the bar with a quiet jazz piece as John drew warily closer. The grim expression of Dimmock Jr. had faded for a flirtatious twinkle in his eyes and a smile played at his lips. When he saw John approaching the smile slipped, and he worked his jaw instead. The younger Dimmock leaned toward Sherlock, saying something John couldn’t hear over the noises of speaking people and the music. As John arrived at the bar, Dimmock Jr. dipped his head to bid goodbye to both men.

John gestured for the bartender to serve him a Scotch before asking Sherlock, “Want a drink, too?”

Sherlock lifted his cocktail glass instead of a verbal answer. John bit the inside of his cheeks to refrain himself of the overwhelming feeling of jealousy combined with a tiny bit of doubt. Apparently, the younger Dimmock just showed his gentlemanly behavior by waiting with Sherlock for John. Yet, there remained a small nagging sensation in the back of his head – the voice of Kitty Riley conveying her suspicion of Sherlock working for Dimmock.

They sat in silence for a moment, John sipping at his Scotch while Sherlock ignored his Cherry Martini. After heaving a sigh, he turned to John, their knees brushing against each other. “It’s not what you think.”

John scoffed at his failure to play-act in front of Sherlock whose perception faculty absorbed every detail of John’s body language. “And what do I think?” He drained his Scotch with another gulp, the heat burning in his stomach.

“He’s gay, John.”

Trying not to sputter the remnants of his Scotch, John tilted his head. “What?”

“He took his chance… tried to get off with me.”

That was even worse. Jealousy sent thorny tendrils forth, raking up his spine and causing his hackles to raise. John snorted a laugh to hide his inappropriate emotion. _What a disastrous evening?_ He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Did you…um…” John had paid him for a week. After those seven days, he could do whatever he wanted. And if he wanted to get hooked up with Dimmock Jr. it was his decision.

“Of course not,” Sherlock sounded affronted, but the usual sharpness of disliking a notion missed his deep voice. He glided from the high bar chair, closing the gap to John. His chest pressed against John’s arm, their difference in height adjusted by the chair. “He’s boring and predictable.” His voice, down by an octave, reverberated in John’s arm, hot blood boiling at the touch and spreading to his inner core. Their faces were so close that John smelled Sherlock’s Cherry Martini. His eyes lingered on the luscious lips and suddenly he wanted nothing more than to steal the taste of the vodka from the other man’s tongue.

But then Sherlock withdrew, bringing an empty and lonesome gap between them. “Should I feel special?” John asked, covering his own uncertainty.

A smirk played at the corners of Sherlock’s eyes. “You’re the most interesting person I’ve met in years, John Watson.” Pale blue sought John’s cobalt blue, pupils widening under the appreciation. “But you have one weakness…”

“Oh no,” John chuckled. “You just gave a compliment. Don’t destroy the moment.”

Ignoring John’s mock frown, Sherlock enjoyed his cluelessness. “… like so many people you _see_ , but fail to _observe_. Harold Dimmock Junior has a secret he obviously hasn’t shared with his father.”

“What? That he’s gay?”

“No,” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “He’s somehow involved with Charles Augustus Magnussen.”

John’s brows shot up, “How do you know?” Charles Augustus Magnussen held three real estate companies. He was like a shark in the business, swallowing companies without remorse. This way, he became a financial mogul not only possessing real estate enterprises but also becoming the CEO of one of the most established newspapers and news channels in Britain.

“A wallet can reveal much information,” he shot John a sharp reminding glance about his own connection to Bart’s tucked away in his wallet. “Dimmock Jr. insisted on paying my drink so I got a good view into his wallet. He had a business card of Mr. Magnussen.”

“Maybe he’s the third stockholder, using a minor company for his purposes,” John murmured pensively.

“He’s known for blackmail, John. Better be careful with him.” Sherlock’s voice betrayed genuine concern for the first time since they met.

They looked at each other for a moment. At last John nodded, weighing Sherlock’s warning. “Thanks. You proved to be very helpful.”

“I rarely condescend myself by being grateful, but I presume it should be appropriate for a compliment.” Sherlock shrugged his shoulders in feigned nonchalance.

“Cheeky git,” John scolded mildly, a lopsided smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You have a brilliant mind, but your manners leave a lot to be desired.”

“Well, at least I did know which fork I was expected to use for which course.”

John couldn’t help but giggle. It broke the spell for him, and the tension of the dinner faded. “God, I’m starving,” he all but groaned. They had barely touched their courses, and John felt the alcohol taking over. He needed something nourishing.

Sherlock considered John for a few seconds. “I know a good Chinese restaurant just around the corner.”

“Sounds great.”

***

Two hours later they were stuffed with ma la chili prawns. Sherlock boasted with his deductions, taking the people of the adjoining tables to pieces and causing John to snicker about the stupidity of some species of mankind. Now and then, their knees bumped against each other under the table as well as their hands above. John successfully thrust the notion of Magnussen aside, focusing on pale blue eyes, sharp cheekbones, plush lips, a long neck and everything else that didn’t lay hidden beneath his clothes. Restless energy moved Sherlock’s muscles in a never-ending current of gestures and mimic.

John paid, and they walked back to the hotel, relishing the brisk air after the overheated restaurant when he caught himself with the awareness of being smitten with Sherlock. The nearer they drew to the hotel the more John realized a shift in their mutual dance of conversation. John grew quiet, watching how Sherlock coordinated his long limbs while explaining in flourishes how people could obtain the same ability to deduce others if they just would endeavor to use their brains.

_God!_ Was he falling in love with the man after what should best be described as a second date? _A paid date!_ Or was he reading too much into his own emotions? Certainly, Sherlock was the first man he had sex with – his twisted mind might depict Sherlock as a symbol for detaching himself from his father’s education and his experiences in adolescence. He knew now with all certainty that he was sexually attracted to men, especially to Sherlock. Indeed, he could barely wait for them to reach the hotel suite. His heart leaped into his throat at the thought whereas at the same moment he remembered that Sherlock hadn’t created his alias for nothing. The man had designed Shezza to allure potential customers. _But then_ , John mused, observing something lurking under the aloof and brilliant surface of the man walking beside him. _He’s not Shezza. He’s Sherlock_.

And it was _Sherlock_ who blended perfectly into the decadence of the high society as they crossed the foyer of the hotel. His remote, cool appearance paired with the set of new clothes made no one look down at him again with deprecating curiosity.

“John?” Sherlock asked once they were alone in the elevator.

“Hmm?” John dug his hands deep into his trouser pockets, flexing them. _Twenty-eight, twenty-nine_.

“What do you want me to do today?” Sherlock’s breath tickled his ear as he bent down while John counted the floors, focusing on the golden buttons with the numbers so as not to press the slender man against the wall and show him what he wanted to do to him today.

But what did he want him to do? A blush crept up John’s neck and painted his face pink. “I…” he cleared his voice, sheepish. “I want you to get off, too, but not alone in the bathroom.” His thoughts trailed off, yet he forced his eyes to lock with Sherlock’s who seemed to falter at the wish.

“I thought you might have considered it to be too much yesterday.”

John gazed at Sherlock, blinking in confusion. Did the self-confident man suddenly radiate with uncertainty? “Because it was my first time with a man?”

A little defiant, Sherlock nodded. “Yes.”

The man who didn’t express his gratitude in fact showed consideration. John shook his head in disbelief at Sherlock’s extremes, a smile curling at the corners of his lips. _Thirty-seven_.

Fumbling with the keycard, John unlocked the door, and they stepped into the hotel suite – the quiet sanctuary of John’s life where he shoved all the thoughts of business aside now. He tossed the keycard onto the dresser, watching Sherlock through the mirror unbuttoning his suit jacket. Of course, he caught on to John looking at him. He shrugged out of his jacket, let it pool around his feet. With two strides, he closed the distance between them, grabbing John’s tie to pull him closer. His index finger hooked behind the knot, loosened it, so he could drag the fabric from John’s neck. This close, John smelled the musky fragrance of Sherlock mingled with tea they drank after dinner. His eyes roamed to luscious lips, parted as he worked John’s buttons of his suit jacket open. When two large hands splayed across his abdomen and slid upward John’s breath hitched. Sherlock’s hands stroked to his shoulders, processing every muscle’s twitch beneath the thin dress shirt. The warmth was intoxicating, the friction electrifying. Sherlock brushed the jacket from John’s shoulders, bearing company to Sherlock’s jacket on the hallway’s floor.

With his hands freed now, John reached for Sherlock’s narrow hips, realizing that he hadn’t yet touched him at all; neither yesterday nor today in the morning. He felt sharp crests of hipbones under his palms, lithe flanks as his fingers curled around the smooth curve. John’s eyes roved over Sherlock’s torso up to meet dilated pupils surrounded by a pale blue corona. _It’s not just a game_ , John thought as the air between them sizzled with unspoken want. The swelling and falling of Sherlock’s chest became shallow as John’s hands stroked upward. Certainly, Sherlock portrayed the mirror image of John’s aroused state, yet this time the man waited. He waited for John to take the next step.

So John took the next step, shoving Sherlock until his back met the wall. A gasp escaped his mouth as John pressed himself flush against him, his half-hard erection grinding against Sherlock’s thighs. The tall man stepped with one foot aside, using the wall as leverage, and spread his knees so that both men were on the same level with their crotches.

John moaned as his cock brushed against Sherlock’s. His dominant hand came up, cupping Sherlock’s cheek. Mesmerized, his thumb brushed over the full bottom lip, eyes fixed on his doing as he leaned closer.

“Remember, John,” the warning vibrated under John’s other hand which lingered on the pliant torso. His focus had been withdrawn from the kiss that should never occur.

He leaned back a little, locking blown wide eyes with Sherlock. “Sorry.” His thumb swept to the strong jawline, pushing ever so gently and indicating for Sherlock that he should lift his head, so John could lower his mouth to the long alabaster throat. Last night, John had forgotten to watch and observe the lithe man, but today he wanted to take over control of their actions. He trailed his lips along the carotid, tongue licking over the fluttering pulse. His hands wandered downward again, releasing the patronizing grip from Sherlock’s jawline. They stroked over strong deltoids, felt them flexing as Sherlock tugged at John’s dress shirt to free the shirttails from the waistband. John dragged his lips from the softness under Sherlock’s ear to the front of his throat while his hands roamed to the firm curve of Sherlock’s arse. Gripping tightly, he supported the man’s weight. “I’ve got you,” he husked against a bobbing Adam’s apple.

A quiet moan reverberated on John’s tongue as he closed his mouth over the ridge, but Sherlock understood John’s hint. He swung one long leg around John’s waist, pressing a heel into his arse. His hips rocked against John’s straining erection hidden beneath several layers of clothes.

John’s grip tightened as an overwhelming frisson took over and he ground even harder against Sherlock’s cock. The friction was carnal yet seductive. John sensed his orgasm building as tendrils of pleasure crawled up his spine, rippling his skin with goose bumps. He was too far gone than to stop now and his hips snapped more vigorously forward at the thought.

Sherlock’s hands finally worked the shirttails free and wriggled their way under John’s shirt. Warm fingers trailed a curious path around the softer middle of John’s body. Since Afghanistan, he had put on some weight, an indicator to the aversion of his new life. But he never was self-conscious about his physique, so he let the molten blood pool in his lower abdomen without flinching, sensing the heat there while his muscles flexed deliciously with want.

After a while, they found a rhythm. When John thrusted forward, Sherlock pushed just with the slightest of pressure against his cock. The man’s hands skimmed over John’s back, stroking upward to hold tight and support his balance so to relieve some tension from John’s left shoulder. He lowered his head to John’s ear, tracing the shell with his tongue. John gasped in response. Obviously, Sherlock had discovered his weak spot. His tongue licked at the lobe and he closed his lips around it, sucking the soft flesh in, toying with it in his mouth. John couldn’t help but lose every sense of self-control, his thrusts becoming erratic. With a sharp suck and a scrape of his teeth, Sherlock released John’s earlobe, pulling at the last string to make John come undone. Electrifying impulses flashed through his body, and John squeezed his eyes shut, his face falling on Sherlock’s shoulder, muffling his shout as the undulating wave pushed him over the edge.

Sticky warmth trickled down his cock and clung to his boxer briefs. He panted, trying to even his breath open-mouthed against Sherlock’s shoulder. Humid air dampened the expensive fabric. After a moment, he leaned back again, locking still hungry eyes with Sherlock. “You asked me what I wanted you to do today…” John swallowed, crinkles playing around his eyes, “Exactly this.”

“What? Come into your pants?” A quizzical brow raised to Sherlock’s forehead, a mocking gesture underlining his teasing question.

“Git,” John huffed a laugh. His hands loosened the grip from Sherlock’s arse, trailing the trousers’ waistband with a finger. “No, what I want to do to _you_ would be the better question.” His tongue rolled over his bottom lip as one hand cupped the bulge in Sherlock’s crotch.

A low groan resonated from Sherlock’s throat and he pressed his erection against the warm palm. “John?” A plea. But for what? For release? Or privacy?

“I want to give you pleasure, too.” Seconds ticked by like eternity as Sherlock’s blown wide eyes looked at John as though he hadn’t understood the words. When the man failed to answer, John took a deep breath, “I felt bad yesterday. I mean, I want to return the favor.”

“It’s not about a favor,” Sherlock interrupted.

“Maybe not in your profession…” John conceded. “Look, I cannot change how I feel. For me, it’s important for my partner to get off, too. Not alone in the bathroom, but with me.”

Hesitant, John’s fingers rounded the button and fly of Sherlock’s trousers until he popped the button through the hole. Sherlock let his head drop back against the wall, not intervening with John’s action. “But we’re not partners, John. You pay me.”

A vague smile curved John’s lips, “Partners in life, partners in a relationship or partners in a contract...” He worked the zipper and shoved the black fabric a bit down. “The definition stays the same.” His hand wound its way into Sherlock’s pants, knuckles brushing along coarse hair as fingers curled around the silky skin of his cock.

Sherlock stiffened at the touch, but a quiet moan wavered from his lips. His head remained at the wall, facing the ceiling with screwed up eyes. Curious hands stopped its digression and dropped to each side, pressing his palms flat against the smooth surface of the wall.

John shifted a little to the flank for better access. The other man’s cock lay heavily in his fist. It was a foreign angle when he stroked Sherlock, retracting the rest of the foreskin. He sensed another fresh surge rippling his skin, albeit his body was sated. Arousal stirred in his mind as he realized Sherlock allowed the pleasure. Since he didn’t feel the caresses it remained difficult to perceive what Sherlock might like. But a groan born deep in Sherlock’s throat proved that somehow he did it right.

After a few strokes, John realized that Sherlock preferred a firmer touch when his hips started to meet John’s movement. He looked up to find Sherlock’s bottom lip captured between his teeth as in a pained expression. His hand began to ache a bit at the angle while his fingers curled around the flared ridge, teasing the sensitive frenulum. The head leaked with John’s effort, and John spread the slick fluid with his thumb.

Sherlock’s legs shook when John cupped his balls and a finger pressed further back against the perineum. “John, stop!” Sherlock gasped, and John retreated at once, startled at the request. He was afraid that he had crossed a line which Sherlock regarded as too intimate, like the kisses. But Sherlock’s next words sent relief down his spine, “I’m going to come any moment and I’ll certainly ruin those ridiculously expensive suits.”

A laugh bubbled up John’s throat. He searched those hazy mercurial eyes, unfocused and lost in sensation. Leaning closer, John’s tongue trailed the way of the hidden carotid, his hand increasing the pressure as it flew along Sherlock’s length. “Sod that! I was going to shop with you tomorrow anyway.” With each stroke, John gave the head a small twist at the end, provoking a shallow rising and falling of Sherlock’s chest as he panted for the much-needed oxygen. He pressed himself against the hypnotizing rhythm of Sherlock’s breathing, warmth radiating from him as he mimicked the man’s earlier action and sucked at his earlobe. Sherlock’s cock thickened and stiffened in his fist and John knew that he was close. “Come for me, Sherlock.”

And then Sherlock held his breath, a soundless moan evaporating into the air when wetness covered John’s hand and trickled over his knuckles. After a second, another gush of semen pulsed, and as expected, ruined their shirts and trousers. John guided Sherlock through his orgasm with gentle strokes until the man’s hand grabbed John’s wrist to stop him. They breathed hard, slowly coming down from the high of their shared intimacy.

After a moment, Sherlock looked down at his body. “Completely ruined,” he dropped his head back into his neck, a laugh shaking his body that carried John along in a fit of giggles.

“I think we’re in desperate need of a shower,” John said between snickers.

Sherlock found John’s deep blue eyes, a warm genuine smile tugging at his lips. But then in a split-second the smile faded, leaving a somehow sad expression. “I’d rather like to clean myself in the guest toilet.”

After their pleasant evening, Sherlock’s suggestion took John unawares. He retreated a step, blinking in confusion, but Sherlock didn’t oblige to elaborate his wish. Maybe he numbered a shower afterward among those intimacies he disapproved?

Sherlock peeled himself off the wall, carefully avoiding any other contact with John as he sidestepped to head for the guest toilet. There was that hollow feeling again, John realized, as though Sherlock tried to maintain a certain distance. _Not really my area_. In the end, the man remained an escort, John reminded himself as he walked to the bathroom.

Almost apathetically, he showered and lathered his body. His mind seemed to be empty besides the recurring question of why Sherlock behaved in these extremes – one moment he was charming and considerate, and the next moment he kept his distance, cold and aloof.

When John went to bed Sherlock already lay at the far edge again, tucked under the duvet. John crawled under the warm blanket, keeping an arm-length distance between them, but this time he refused to face the empty room. This time, his eyes lingered on the rhythmic swelling and falling of Sherlock’s back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I used some quotes in this chapter from the original script of “Pretty Woman”, especially from the business related dialogues since I stopped economics after three semesters. You can find them [here](http://www.imsdb.com/scripts/Pretty-Woman.html).
> 
> I hope to post the next chapter on January 14th. If you want to catch up with me you’ll also find me on [Tumblr](http://nymeria578.tumblr.com/).


	3. Lies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always a huge thanks goes to my wonderful beta [GhostTari](http://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostTari/pseuds/GhostTari) who, despite some health issues, provided her invaluable help. If you still find some mistakes I’ll take the blame.
> 
> And of course thanks for all the kudos and lovely comments! They’re making my day :)

“So do you prefer a dick?” Mary’s spiteful voice reverberated in his head.

“No,” he emphasized in his defense. _This is wrong!_ Mary’s words were not her own, rather an echo of someone else.

“You are a terrible liar, John.”

“As I said, I don’t prefer men.” Which was the truth. There was no preference in his attraction.

“Then why don’t you love me?”

“I did love you.” At last, the memory of this past discussion popped into his mind.

“You are just looking for an excuse.”

“What excuse?” What could his ex-wife possibly mean?

“Your deception?”

“ _My_ deception?” he echoed the question in a mocking tone. “ _You_ were the one who deceived _me_.” Several events kicked off this talk, but the main reason became his eventual filing for divorce.

He had once loved his ex-wife. Yet, over the years they became estranged from each other. John’s first mistake, according to Mary, was his deployment abroad. But what could he do? They met when he had already enlisted. She knew what she was getting herself into. When he returned from Afghanistan she seemed to have changed. Broken, not only with his comminuted left shoulder but also with a posttraumatic stress disorder, she took care of him. So he married her.

Shortly after, his father died, and the entire dynamic shifted in their relationship. Mary had worked for his father for a few years, but working with her husband now caused arguments more often than not. Their views on leading the company differed over and over again. Mary wasn’t a person to accept a subordinate role to her husband. She never had been; neither in private matters nor, as he experienced back then, in business matters. While John took no interest in non-property business, Mary wanted to accumulate a fortune by speculating in listed stocks regarding upcoming buyouts by outside companies. She accused John of being too soft for the business and offered to have him cede business related decisions to her. Of course he declined, and she accused him of not trusting her.

The absolute turning point occurred five months after their wedding. Without telling John, Mary took two million dollars from their personal account, as she had no access to the business accounts, and purchased fifteen percent of another company’s stocks. Later, she claimed she’d planned to resell them for double the price when an investor tipped her the wink, but the whole thing looked fishy. By chance, Kitty Riley discovered that Mary occasionally met with the main shareholder of the company those stocks belonged to – Charles Augustus Magnussen. As things turned out, Magnussen sold the company, causing the stock price to plummet. Mary lost the game and with it two million pounds. Though she seemed furious with Magnussen’s step, the two continued to meet after the money-losing bargain. _Why would she do that?_ Though he had no proof, John accused her of having an affair. _This must be her alleged excuse._

This small whisper repeated in his head time and again, leaving a nagging sensation of distrust. He met Mary three years ago. His father introduced her to him in the hope of having found a beautiful match for his son. She was petite with firm curves, blue eyes and blond hair – exactly his type; at least he believed so at the time. After his argument with his father in his late teens, John had only dated women; mostly with the same features. They couldn’t be described as striking, but they did look good and matched his father’s taste in a future wife for his son. Yet, Mary differed from his individual dating rules; not by her appearance, but by her way of thinking. Working for his father, she had captivated his attention with her acute mind. She was clever if not brilliant which made the losing bargain the more suspicious. Why did she invest in a company where the most feared businessman of the United Kingdom took the lion’s share? She must have known better than to not suppose that Magnussen would set a trap for her?

Harry hated her from the first moment they met. Mary’s patronizing manners threw his alcohol addicted sister into a regular tantrum. Even though his father introduced her, John liked Mary from the beginning, and over the time he learned to ignore her condescending tone until he coaxed his mind into loving her. It was convenient to sit back for once and let someone else make the decisions. In his job, he needed to take over control too often. So he managed to pay no heed to her patronizing comments in exchange for trust.

“ _I_ deceived _you_?” she scoffed. “No, John. You were just looking for an excuse to finally leave me because you prefer a dick instead of a cunt.”

He cringed at the harsh wording and realized the dream which had captured him in his sleep. Mary never said that, never accused him of his sexuality, although she must have sensed his inclination toward men as well. She was simply too much an observer – like Sherlock. In this case, the man reminded John of his ex-wife. Yet, here he was, dreaming of Mary insulting him with those same offensive words his father once used; a horrific mixture of the two people who had betrayed him.

In the way of dreams, once someone realized the delusion of a dream, they could force their mind to wake up. So John compelled his attention to the contorted image of his ex-wife and told his subconscious to let her go.

Faint light suffused his eyelids as he found himself draped by a warm duvet. A slight sheen of sweat clung to his body, the remnants of a dream he rather preferred to delete from his memory. His eyes fluttered open, the blurry images of reality refining the sharp contours of his hotel suite. He shoved the duvet down to his waist and looked at the beautiful wallpaper of cherry blossoms above the bed, waiting for his conscious mind to take over his numb body. His scar twinged, and he recognized how much he had tensed his muscles during the dream. John dug the heels of his hands into his eyes, pressing hard until he saw black stars in front of a white curtain. Oh, how much he hated his father; how much he hated him for still having this effect on him. Mary was indeed just a scapegoat for his subconscious, a substitute for a far deeper wound.

Quiet snoring tore him from his emotional outburst and John turned his head toward the origin. This time, Sherlock had rolled onto his back though he still clung to the very edge of the bed. John watched the even rise and fall of Sherlock’s chest, a hypnotizing rhythm that almost lulled him back to sleep. A slight shift in the breathing followed by a stretching of his limbs indicated that the man was on the verge of awakening. The duvet ruffled around Sherlock’s narrow waist and John could see each muscle, each sinew flex lithely beneath the alabaster skin.

John who had tossed himself to the middle of the vast bed again rolled onto his side. If he were to flip over onto his stomach their shoulders would brush. But John stayed in his position, eyes roving over the man beside him. The pervading light framing the curtains in a rectangular gleam revealed once again the late morning hour as the sun stood already high. Its rays lightening the bedroom enough to examine each of Sherlock’s features without interruption. Black locks curled in a dark cloud onto the white pillow. John remembered the softness against his fingertips, the reminiscence sending a tingling sensation up his hands and arms. The dark mop of curls provided quite a contrast to the pallor of Sherlock’s skin. Focused on his face, John made out a freckle or two on his nose and cheeks. Surely, a remnant of Sherlock’s youth when he must have had brighter hair and more freckles. John reached out, his hand not touching those sharp cheekbones, just trailing a ghost of a caress along his prominent features down to those enticing lips which remained forbidden. For better breathing, Sherlock had parted the plush pink skin, the white of his teeth peeking out.

His fingers wandered along the long neck, hovering over the Adam’s apple – a very protruding feature of a man as women usually lacked it. Further down, his hand floated over the firmness of the man’s chest. Again, no soft curves of a woman’s breast. Two pebbled nipples showed the morning’s chill of the room, tempting John to lean over and let his tongue drag over one nipple to feel it stiffening even more under the touch. Instead, he withdrew his hand to pull up the duvet for Sherlock when he detected the small tent in his groin. _Oh!_ Definitely something a woman lacked, John thought with a chuckle. As amused it sounded in one second at the next one a serious question popped into his mind. How far was he willing to go? How far would he go? But the instant the thought arose, he realized his urge to yank away the duvet and suck Sherlock off, smell him and taste him as far as that damn condom would allow it. Well, that was enough an answer, wasn’t it? His father’s face visualized in front of his mind’s eye and he replied his earlier question. _Still no preference at all, but at the moment I really want to swallow that dick_. A snort bubbled up his throat until it turned into full laughter, desperate and relieving at the same time.

“You’re upset.” In the shadows of the room, two mercurial eyes locked with John, yet Sherlock did not share John’s amusement. The man with his deductive skills looked straight through to the despair.

“I was,” John conceded. “But now I’m perfectly fine.”

“You’ve been watching me and suddenly you’re upset.” Sherlock pressed for an elucidation of his unspoken question – a character trait that didn’t allow the man to let go of a topic where he couldn’t be hundred percent sure.

“You’ve been sleeping. How would you know?”

“Your shift in your breathing woke me.”

“And then you pretended to sleep?” John asked amusement whitewashing his embarrassment over being caught in the act.

Sherlock raked two hands through his sleep-tousled hair, ruffling it even more. “What upset you?”

They stared at each other for a moment as John considered his reply. He didn’t like lying, but this was personal, and once again he reminded himself that Sherlock would leave him after the week. Yet, even if he tried to avoid the truth the man would easily read his face and make his deduction. Heaving a sigh, John decided for honesty. “My father.”

Sherlock scrunched up his nose. “You were watching me and thinking of your father? Should I be worried?”

First, John’s eyes widened at the misconception before understanding Sherlock’s quip and a giggle wavered in his throat, but he suppressed it. “No. I dreamed about him which reopened old sores. He was very … let’s say _conservative_.”

The meaningful look that John gave Sherlock, let the other man understand John’s distress. “I see.”

“Let bygones be bygones.” John wanted to drop the subject. He swung his legs with vigor over the edge of the bed to emphasize his meaning. “I have a plan for you today.”

“Just one?” Sherlock quirked a teasing eyebrow.

John feigned hesitation as if he needed to consider Sherlock’s question. A knowing grin stretched across his face, evading a response. “Get up. Today we’re going to shop for you since you ruined your suit yesterday.” If John didn’t know better, he would say that Sherlock blushed a delicate pink, and his smirk grew nearly predatory.

John ordered in a healthy breakfast and enjoyed the view of Sherlock savoring a honeyed toast. After finishing the tea, they used the bathroom separately. Since John needed to attend another meeting with Kitty Riley and his London associate Sebastian Wilkes in the afternoon he decided for a black two-piece suit, dropping the idea of a tie with a smile. He imitated Sherlock’s attitude from the night before and left the topmost button of his light blue shirt open.

While Sherlock’s suit became a case for the laundry service, the man slipped into his black skinny jeans matching it with an equally black V-neck long sleeve. John raised an eyebrow at the new clothing since Sherlock bought nothing else besides the suit and the shoes, dress shirt and tie.

“After that fiasco with the first shops, I went home to fetch extra clothes. My underwear was running thin.”

John snickered at the statement as they departed from the hotel suite. In front of the entrance door, the concierge flagged down a cab for them. Sherlock, in his casual wear, drew once again the attention of the hotel’s staff to him as well as curious glances by some guests.

The taxi pulled up at the curb of Savile Row, a street famous for its bespoke tailors. When John had paid the cabbie, he strode toward the door of an expensive looking shop. Sherlock trailed reluctantly behind.

The ringing of a small bell announced the new customers. A lean man in a fine black three-piece suit greeted them, but his courtesy faltered a bit at the sight of Sherlock in his torn jeans and worn leather jacket. Sherlock’s eyes soured into a glacial stare at the tailor’s darting glances between him and John. Obviously, he couldn’t decide whether Sherlock was an affront to his shop or a guest. John shoved himself between the two men, “We would like to order three suits.”

The tailor, a Mr. Anderson and owner of the shop, narrowed his eyes at John and decided eventually for the latter of his presumptuous consideration. “Of course, sir. What kind of suit do you bear in mind?”

According to what Sherlock had chosen the day before, John answered, “A single-breasted suit, contemporary British cut.”

“Very good choice, sir. Any preferences in color and material?” Mr. Anderson, a man in his early forties with black curtained hair, gestured for his customers to take a seat on the dark green chesterfield sofa as he picked up a leather bound book with fabric samples.

“Black. Super 140s worsted wool,” Sherlock tossed in, and the tailor arched his eyebrows at the man’s profound knowledge.

“And we need three dress shirts as well, cotton.” John grabbed for another sample book filled with several colors and shirting.

“Simple white and black…” Sherlock mused, flipping with John through the samples.

“And purple,” John said, comparing the sample with Sherlock’s pale skin. From the corner of his eyes, he could see a knowing smirk tugging at Sherlock’s lips.

“Very well, you have a decided image of your wishes,” the tailor closed the sample book with an audible flap. “I need to take your measurements. Room number two will it be, sir.” He stood up and guided them through the shop to an adjacent room with a cherry wood desk and a small round pedestal in the middle. A huge mirror stood across the pedestal and the wall was framed with matching cherry wood shelves, presenting all kind of ties as well as several bales of cloth. Mr. Anderson waved a hand for John to have a seat on the leather armchair next to the desk. “If you will excuse me. I will be back in a minute.”

When the door clicked shut, Sherlock turned around, locking pale blue eyes with John who lounged into the offered armchair. “John, I really appreciate your contribution, but this is too expensive for a present. I don’t need three suits, and certainly one from the rack would suffice for the week.”

“No, you do need three suits, Sherlock,” John emphasized with a smug smile.

“I can wear one suit on several occasions. You don’t have five business dinners ahead this week.”

“No, I don’t,” John agreed, his eyes unflinching. “But who knows how many suits you might ruin throughout the week. Better be safe than sorry.”

Sherlock blinked several times at the innuendo as John had caught him off-guard. “It’s alarming how someone can become accustomed to a certain lifestyle in such a short time,” Sherlock muttered, trying to hide his blush by shrugging out of his black leather jacket.

The door opened and their little argument was interrupted by Mr. Anderson. “Would the gentlemen fancy a cup of tea or coffee?”

“Coffee would be lovely. Thank you,” John replied, looking at Sherlock who nodded his affirmation.

The tailor poured each a cup and placed them on the small coffee table beside John’s armchair. While John poured some milk into his cup, Sherlock helped two spoonful of sugar into his own cup. He sipped at the hot drink, locking sharp eyes with Mr. Anderson who arranged his utensils on the desk.

After putting the cup back onto the table, Sherlock walked to the pedestal, cocking his head. “Do you want me to remove my ragged jeans and wretched long sleeve?” The question dripped with sarcasm, aiming at the prejudice of the man in his fine garments; a provocation Sherlock simply couldn’t bite back. His gaze met John’s through the mirror, rolling his eyes in annoyance.

John needed to mute himself with a fist crashing against his mouth. He bit on his knuckles to prevent his ungracious snort of laugh as he saw the tailor flabbergasted looking at Sherlock.

“I… um…” Mr. Anderson cleared his voice, aware of the quip he just fell prey to. Irritation laid bare in his eyes, but for the sake of his customers he steeled his composure. “No, I’ll take your measurements with your clothes on.”

Using a yellow measuring tape, the tailor ran his hands up Sherlock’s long legs. He scribbled the numbers down on his notebook. John had leaned back in the armchair, sipping at his coffee now and then. His eyes followed the measuring tape along the outside of Sherlock’s legs, the girth of his thigh up the buttock girth when a slight pang of jealousy tightened his stomach. He had grabbed those firm curves the night before and no one else should touch him there.

Sherlock had crossed his arms in front of his chest, waiting for the tailor to measure up his torso when John spoke up to distract himself from his dark thoughts and likewise claim his position, “Be careful. He’s ticklish.”

Sherlock gazed at John, surprised at the overt possessiveness before regaining his composure and replying in a mock pout, “I’m not.”

Much to the chagrin of Mr. Anderson confusion crept up his face, painting his ears scarlet at what should be a private conversation, but John didn’t care anymore. The realization hit him hard as he held Sherlock’s pale blue stare in the mirror. Once, John mulled over and over again at the external perception of his friends, always afraid that they might talk about him, might see him as gay which he reaffirmed that he wasn’t. But today in the fitting-room of this prejudiced tailor it didn’t matter anymore. Sherlock apparently felt uncomfortable with the lanky man who looked down at him as if he would be some dirt under his shoe.

“Since yesterday, I know you are.” John winked at Sherlock, remembering how his fingers had trailed Sherlock’s flanks when his muscles twitched at the touch.

Mr. Anderson huffed a breath and tried to regain his countenance at the intimate verbal exchange of his customers. To distract them from further innuendos he asked, “Have you already decided on a certain tie?” His eyes shot the shelves along the wall a cursory glance before he resumed to take Sherlock’s measurements around his waist and chest.

This time, John couldn’t restrain his snicker. “Oh no, he’s not into that kink.”

It caused a vexed cough from the tailor who tugged at his own tie in response. Obviously, he disliked becoming the subject of a private joke. So he kept his mouth shut for the rest of the measurement.

When he scribbled down the last number in his notebook, he brushed an unruly strand of hair back. “I think we can arrange the fitting in two weeks.”

John arched his eyebrows at the allotted time. “No, no,” he emphasized. “We need at least one suit in two days.”

An apologetic smile crossed the tailor’s face. “I am very sorry, sir, but that is impossible.”

John stared at the man before retrieving a black credit card. “Nothing’s impossible. Just name your price.”

After a moment of consideration, Mr. Anderson took a deep breath accepting the credit card. “I cannot guarantee that three suits will be finished.”

John huffed in annoyance. “We need at least one, and the other two can be sent on to Mr. Holmes’ home address.” He turned to Sherlock for his consent. “Which is by the way?”

Sherlock held John’s cobalt blue gaze, clearly considering to disclose such intimate details before replying, “221B Baker Street.”

“That’s quite an area,” John’s brows shot up once again, surprised by Sherlock’s affluent neighborhood.

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders, “I just found the flat and am currently looking for a flatmate.”

“Well then,” the tailor swiped the exclusive credit card through the reading device. “The fitting can be arranged by tomorrow ten o’clock.”

When the front glass door shut and the chiming of the bell fell silent, Sherlock exhaled an annoyed huff. “What a blasé idiot with erectile dysfunction.”

John snorted a laugh at the bit of too much information. “I’m sorry that you experienced such biased people yesterday and today.”

Piercing eyes bored into John. “I don’t like to repeat myself, but this isn’t your fault. So stop apologizing.”

“I agree,” John rolled his eyes at Sherlock’s exasperation. “The man was an idiot.”

“And it wasn’t necessary.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t need three suits,” Sherlock reiterated, but this time his expression wouldn’t approve any insinuation. “You’ve paid the man way too much money for clothing you could have bought considerably cheaper somewhere else. _This wasn’t necessary_.”

“I don’t care what’s necessary,” John frowned. “Regard it as an investment paid from my business account.”

Sherlock took a step back, staring at John with a mix of amusement and curiosity. “It’s fascinating how you can pretend to be someone else even though you despise lies.”

John understood that Sherlock didn’t allude to him lying overtly at the tailor or at Dimmock Senior. No. He knew Sherlock was referring to John playing a role which implied the lie itself. The John Watson before he accepted his inheritance would never have acted cold and aloof, swinging his credit card in front of himself to open any door. Holding Sherlock’s scintillating eyes, he replied, “Only to people I dislike.”

“And to people you apparently want to conduct business with.” There was a shift in Sherlock’s posture, just a subtle movement, but John could tell that the man saw John’s deception directed at himself. “You liked Harold Dimmock Senior. He’s an honorable man who cares for his employees.”

John’s eyes widened at the perception, a little worried that the old man and his son might have seen him likewise. His therapist once told John he had trust issues and to protect himself for further emotional hurting, he shut out the world. One of Mary’s accusations aimed at this specific lack in his self-awareness. _Why do you never trust me?_ Well, since she lost two million pounds without telling him, she should be able to answer that question to herself. Now, Sherlock’s more than accurate observation caused him to rebuild his defenses, shutting out the man with a dismissive wave of his hand. “It’s part of the business.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes to slits, a vague smile tugging at his lips. “Indeed, you’re a very interesting person, Dr. Watson.”

An uncomfortable silence stretched between them for the first time, and John fidgeted on the pavement, not knowing what to say to Sherlock’s mocking statement. His buzzing mobile ripped them from the unspoken truth hovering over their heads like Damocles’ sword. A message from Harry reminded him of his appointment. “Look,” he began, producing several notes from his wallet, “I need to dash. Take this –“ several hundred pounds were pressed into Sherlock’s hand, “– I want you to buy one or two pairs of shoes matching to your new outfit. By evening, I’ll be back in the hotel.”

Before John climbed into the cab he had flagged, Sherlock asked, “What’s in two days?”

“It's actually in three days. I wanted to be sure he’ll tailor the suit in time,” John confessed. “I’m invited to watch a polo match. Dimmock’s invited as well, and I guess since his son plays polo he’ll participate, too.”

***

Forty minutes later, John met with Kitty Riley in the office of Sebastian Wilkes. The man always sported a false smile. He practically dripped with smug self-confidence, yet the banker had a good eye for numbers and math which made him indispensable for the job. Keeping an eye on John’s stocks, he presented a necessary evil, regarding himself more a business partner than a broker working for the company. He sat across John and Kitty, his hands folded, resting on the huge desk in front of him. “Dimmock came out of his corner swinging. He started buying up all available stock as soon as the market opened.” Despite the bad news, Sebastian seemed to be unimpressed as his arrogant smile stretched even wider.

“The old man is tough…” John spoke quietly to himself, reminded of Sherlock’s external perception. Indeed, he didn’t harbor enmity for Harold Dimmock, on the contrary, he held a high opinion of Mr. Dimmock. He had established his company all by himself with no beginning balance unlike John who started with a legacy that altered his life. His employees grew dear to him and he would fight for them to the bitter end.

Sherlock was right – John deceived himself to conduct his business. Being laid bare in front of the man was intimidating. Yet, he appreciated the fact that someone pierced through his façade at last, seeing his true self, so John needn’t hide before Sherlock. His sister shared the same effect since she had known him her whole life. Still, her alcohol abuse widened the gap between them and estranged them. Since his divorce, he became good friends with Greg, but they barely had time to meet up with each other, let alone for John to let his mask crumble down in its entirety. And now, he had even stonewalled Sherlock. What a difference compared to yesterday when John reluctantly broke away from the man in the hotel suite whereas now he fled into the cab to avoid any further eye contact. All yesterday, John had sensed the tingling excitement of seeing Sherlock in the evening for the business dinner, but today he was glad to have yet another meeting; glad to dodge possible questions that victimized him under the scrutinizing deductions of the man. His attitude as to how he dealt with Sherlock’s observation made him feel ashamed. He bit his lip, scolding himself at his misbehavior – by lying to himself he also lied to Sherlock. Failure and distress clung to his chest in a hot grip, making it hard to breathe over the realization.

“It's up to ten and a quarter,” Sebastian said and ripped John from his contemplations back to a reality where he must show no weakness; where he must lie again.

“Offer nine and a half,” John’s features hardened as he deliberately clenched his jaw. “Bring them back down to earth.”

“Blimey! Where is he getting the money to fight?” Kitty’s eyes skimmed over the most recent stock reports.

“Someone's loaning it to him.” John remembered Dimmock’s determined expression when he told him he would take John’s businesslike conduct very personally. “Get on it right away. There are also several leads that he’s somehow involved with Charles Augustus Magnussen; or at least his son is.”

“Magnussen?” Kitty knitted her brows. “Why would Magnussen be interested in business with Dimmock? He’s too insignificant for him.”

John shrugged his shoulders. “That’s something we must find out.” Since he knew about the man’s business practices John became cautious with the media mogul; not to mention Sherlock’s warning he took heed of.

Sebastian followed their small verbal exchange in silence, the smugness wiped off his face as he frowned at John. “Our contract guys are working on the Dimmock pension funds. There's another ten million there,” he put his folded hands to his mouth, elbows bracing on the black leather armrests as if in an impious prayer. “We can bleed them dry.”

John considered the proposal for a moment. It would expedite the proceedings and gain them extra money, but his indecision reflected Sherlock’s too true conclusion about John. Could he really strip the funds clean? This money didn’t just belong to Dimmock but also to his employees. His reproach echoed in John’s ear. “Put the pension funds on hold until I say otherwise.”

Kitty and Sebastian exchanged confused glances. From the beginning, they had agreed that they would take whatever they put their hands on. “We're letting them slide?” Kitty asked, incredulous, her undertone even bordering on reproachful.

“I want the MOT certificate for the river cargo vessels to be top priority right now along with the knowledge of from where Dimmock’s sudden capital originates.”

“But, John…”

There. She used his first name again when they agreed on using last names; another sort of patronizing manner. “Do it.” The imperative rolled easily over his tongue, and he felt a bit better. He fished his mobile from his trouser pocket as he left the office for the silence of the adjacent conference room. _Everything’s been said either way_. For now, John must have a word with his sister.

The ringing echoed in his ear as he waited for Harry to answer her phone. He was inclined to yell at her voicemail when she didn't pick up immediately. Just before the high-pitched pip was to ring out, she answered with a muffled, "John."

Her voice sounded tired and she pronounced the last letter, drawing it out. He clenched his jaw at the realization that she must be drunk. “Why are you still in bed when you should be working to help me with our deal?”

The reproach hung heavily in the air, and John listened to the rustling of bedclothes as Harry sat up. “I’m fine.”

Of course, in her egotistic perception she just considered her own well-being, meaning she could manage her life despite her drinking habit. But she couldn’t, John frowned, nostrils flaring at her forgetfulness. All his anger erupted in one exhale, “For God’s sake, Harry, you had one fucking job.”

Huffing annoyed in the speaker, she said, “Calm down and tell me what’s going on?”

Her ignorance fueled his irritation. “I was bloody calm before I realized that you risked our family assets by not doing your work. You should be staying in touch with Wilkes and have an eye on the stocks. Did you know that there’s a third company involved? Someone bought ten percent of the shares.”

“I instructed Sebastian Wilkes to contact me if something changes at the stock exchange,” her voice became strident with each passing word, defending herself.

“And what about you keeping a watch over Dimmock Enterprises? Dimmock’s son suddenly came home from the States to support his father who’s in financial straits?” He paused to let the information sink in and then added, “And why didn’t you notice that Junior has also contacted Charles Augustus Magnussen for some unknown reason?”

There was a short silence when Harry processed all the new information she should have known two days ago. “Magnussen?” her voice rasped with concern.

“Yes, Magnussen,” John emphasized, slowly coming down from his anger since the first wave of exasperation subsided.

“Shit.”

“I concur,” he nodded. “I have no idea why he would be interested in helping Dimmock Enterprises. The company doesn’t fit his usual hunting rules – it’s too mediocre.”

“Maybe he got wind of us being involved and don’t want to forfeit his chance to get to us.”

“I’ve thought the same,” John conceded, rubbing a finger over his brow as he sensed a dull throbbing. “And since the debacle with Mary I’ve become careful in handling him. I won’t risk our family assets just for the sake of this deal.”

Silence stretched between them as they considered their possibilities. “What do you want to do now?”

“What do _we_ want to do now,” John corrected. “It’s our company, not mine.”

He heard Harry biting on her fingernail, weighing their options. “A leveraged buyout then. It’s not as risky. The deal will raise our reputation and gains us a lot of money which we can invest in new property.”

Hesitant, John hummed his affirmation, Kitty’s suggestion still at the forefront of his mind. “Alright. But I want you to do your job accurately for once, Harry. Keep an eye on Magnussen. I suspect he’s involved with the third stockholder. He’s definitely using Dimmock for his own plans, and Dimmock’s desperate enough to defer to his disposition.”

“Okay, I’ll check on the third stockholder and see if there’s a connection.”

“And no excuses anymore, Harry,” John warned, referring to her drinking. “This is far too important and one mistake could cost us everything we have.”

A grumble resonated through the receiver as Harry replied, “Yes. I’ll call you when I find something.”

With that said, she rang off. John’s shoulders sagged, anger fading as a slight shimmer of hope replaced the antagonism that his sister would finally come to her senses. She liked to make decisions for their company, but in the end, all the work got stuck with John.

He left the conference room and walked to Sebastian’s PA, asking for a coffee he was in desperate need of now. The probable involvement of Magnussen would change everything. If the third stockholder indeed acted as a stooge for Magnussen who still pulled the strings, John wouldn’t hesitate and drop the deal.

With a hot mug in hand, he returned to Sebastian’s office where the smug smile of the man curled at his lips again. “You were right,” he stood bent forward over his computer display, putting the receiver of his phone back onto the station. “Dimmock mortgaged everything he has down to his private assets to secure loans from a bank. Not just any bank. One we do business with.”

John sipped at his coffee, humming noncommittally.

“It goes without saying that your business means a great deal more to them than our friend Dimmock’s.” Sebastian’s hand waved to the phone on his desk, “All you have to do is make a call.”

Staying silent, John looked at the bitter fluid swashing in his cup. If he called the bank now, he could ensure the deal done by the end of the week. He bit his bottom lip, Sherlock’s words reverberating in his mind – the unspoken accusation resonating with the echo. He was so endlessly tired of the day.

But why did it trouble him so much? _He’s just a man I encountered two days ago. A hooker_. Why was it so important to John to be hold in high regard by Sherlock? _In less than five days, he’ll be gone again_.

“Excuse me for saying this, but what is wrong with you today?” Sebastian’s smile slipped at John’s ostensible indifference. “First, you go soft on the pension funds. Now, you're giving him the chance to get away? As of two minutes ago, you were committed to the tune of over twenty million pound –“

“Sebastian, don't talk to me about how much money's involved. It's my money.” John kept his composure, but his voice cut like razor-sharp blades.

“And some of it's mine,” Sebastian snapped his mouth shut, clenching his jaw. He would miss quite a percentage if John backed down. “John, his jugular's exposed.”

John swallowed, his eyes lingering on the offered phone. _Sherlock will be gone again_. Oh, who was he fooling? The man just came out of nowhere, holding up a mirror for John to see his own flaws which he already knew; not even in a reproach but with a blunt statement. Yet it stuck to John. He knew what they were up to with the deal. He knew that people would suffer. And above all, he knew that he must maintain this tiring façade for the cruel reality.

“Get the bank on the phone for me.”

***

By late evening, John left the office and took a cab to the hotel. Exhaustion had strained his nerves, yet he didn’t mind working late, still reluctant to face Sherlock and his scrutinizing eyes. He didn’t want to exculpate himself for any deed he had done.

When he opened the door dimmed light and the delicious smell of roasted honeyed chicken greeted him. Surprised, he put the keycard onto the dresser, following the aroma of sweetness to the living room. The dining table was decorated with two candles, silver bell covers sheltered two dishes from becoming cold. John’s jaw dropped open. He had considered Sherlock anything but a romantic.

A movement caught his peripheral view. Sherlock stood in the door to the bedroom, wrapped in a sheet. His dark curls looked tousled and he blinked at the flickering light. John flexed his dominant hand at the sight of Sherlock swathed tightly in white cotton, only his right shoulder exposed.

Some of John’s earlier tension faded at the comforting atmosphere, and a warm smile curled around his lips. “You know, the hotel provides nice silk dressing gowns. They’re in the bathroom cabinet under the sink.”

“You’re late,” Sherlock ignored the quip on his behalf.

“Are you wearing pants?”

“No, because I fell asleep. Actually, I prefer to sleep naked.”

“I’ll remind you of that tonight,” a wicked smile stretched his grin and his heart leaped into his throat at the knowledge that the man wore no briefs underneath the sheet.

Sherlock’s eyes sparkled with mischief as he let the sheet slip from his left shoulder down to his waist, revealing not only creamy skin but also a shiny gray tie matching his mercurial gaze. “I thought of you when I saw this.” He trailed a long finger along the silken fabric.

“And I thought you hated ties.”

“It’s not for me but you,” Sherlock explained, closing the gap between them as he crossed the living room to the dining table where John stood. “I know you’ll want to wear a tie at the polo match to portray the man you need to be. Consider it a present.”

“Paid with my money.” John raised a suggestive eyebrow.

Sherlock shrugged his bared shoulders. “It’s the thought that counts.”

John’s smile grew shy at Sherlock this close. He tentatively touched the smooth material, murmuring, “It’s nice.”

“The thought or the tie?”

_Always teasing for the truth and the praise_. John mused as the silvery gaze roved over his face. “Both.”

Sherlock’s hand covered John’s on his chest, the playful smirk turning into concern. “You’re still upset.”

“Bad day,” John husked taken aback at the sudden turnabout and withdrew his hand from the warm touch which calmed him and yet frightened him at the same time. “Let’s not talk about it. Boring stuff about stocks and funds.”

Narrowing his eyes at the apparent omission, Sherlock loosened the knot of the tie. “I can give you a massage if you want?”

John blinked at the question, not knowing whether the man was flirting with him or not. “A massage?”

“Yes, you seem stiff,” Sherlock dismissed any possible innuendo. “Your muscles are all strained.” He traced a path with his finger over John’s hardened shoulders. “Take off your jacket and come here.”

Sherlock flopped onto the ocher-colored sofa, his sheet rustling as he adjusted his position. He indicated for John to sit down in front of his legs on the floor. After hanging up the jacket on the coat rack, John sat cross-legged as instructed, using the sheet between Sherlock’s knees as a backrest.

When Sherlock’s hands reached for his chest John jerked back, startled at the touch there instead of his shoulders. “I have better access with your shoulders bared,” Sherlock explained, his voice vibrating against John’s ear as he popped button after button through their holes.

Before gliding the dress shirt down to his elbows, John grabbed Sherlock’s wrist, an unspoken plea on his tongue. “I… um…”

“Your scar?”

John angled his head to frown at Sherlock. “How do you know?”

“You’ve been injured in Afghanistan. I assumed it was one of your shoulders according to your movements.”

Holding the mercurial gaze in the shifting candlelight of the room, John swallowed his fears. “The left shoulder.”

“Shall I avoid it?”

“No, it’s healed. I just don’t feel much there. The scar tissue makes it rather numb to any touch. Just dead flesh. Not very pretty.”

Sherlock waited a moment, but when John said nothing further, his hands flattened against John’s chest, warm palms stroking upward to let the cotton of John’s shirt slide down to his elbow. The whisper of the light fabric revealed gnarled skin on his left shoulder, spreading like a cobweb. “A penetrating gunshot wound,” he murmured. “This is the exit wound.” A timid finger brushed over the scarred flesh, a faint tickling sensation until it was replaced by the humid puff of lips ghosting over the scar. John shuddered at the unexpected kiss on his most loathed body part. “Not so dead to me,” John sensed the cheeky grin against the scar before Sherlock leaned back again, trading his lips for large hands.

The first touch was a mix of pain and relief. Indeed, John’s shoulders were rock-hard, the day’s tension taking its toll. A groan wavered in John’s throat when Sherlock’s thumbs stroked with determination over the stiff ropes of muscles beneath his skin. Even though the touch on the left side felt number his muscles thanked the pressure of Sherlock’s fingers as knots loosened beneath the scarred tissue. “You know how to do a proper massage.”

“I’ve learned it for a c… a customer.”

John’s head rolled forward, tense muscles stretching with each firm stroke of Sherlock’s thumb until his chin dipped against his chest. He relished the solid caress despite the vain attempt of ignoring the notion of Sherlock massaging some other bloke. Each time, Sherlock found a new induration with his clever fingers, he increased the pressure and effectively stroked the tension out of the muscle. It was like heaven and John closed his eyes, letting himself rock back and forth under the massage as if in trance.

“Oh God,” John gasped when Sherlock’s hands moved up his relaxed neck, his thumbs simultaneously stroking hard along the two ropes of muscles into the fringe of John’s graying honey-colored hair. Goose bumps rippled his body with sweet pleasure, yet he couldn’t let go completely as the brushing of the tie around Sherlock’s neck against his bared back remained a constant reminder of the day – a symbol of his role he must play outside the doors of this hotel suite.

“You need to relax, John.” Sherlock’s hands glided down, resting on his shoulders as his thumbs drew soothing circles.

The caress stood in stark contrast to what Sherlock was providing and to what John couldn’t accept – at least for the moment. His head was still crammed with too many thoughts, and each time he tried to grasp one chain to halt the never-ending susurrus in his mind he lost the lead to an uncertain emotional chaos. “I just need some time to come down from the day.”

Sherlock’s fingers trailed feather light strokes to John’s deltoids and back again, the massage becoming tender and intimate which John confounded in Sherlock’s behavior. “Is this still about your dream?”

John gripped Sherlock’s hand, stopping his confusing touches. “No,” he said, defiance taking over his posture as he hunched his shoulders again. Sherlock was prying into territory John still didn’t want to admit. _He’ll be gone in five days_.

“So you consider me as one of your business partners?” Sherlock drawled rhetorically. His lips pressed to a thin line, the disapproval of John’s reply plain in his face.

“What does that have to do with my dream?” Annoyance resonated in John’s voice, betraying his day’s mood in which Sherlock pursued a truth John already knew.

“Because you’re lying to me, John Watson. Don’t take me for an idiot.” Sherlock clicked the last consonant to emphasize his growing petulance.

John huffed a derisive laugh. “You? An idiot?”

Sherlock ignored the skit. “Today you said you only lie to people you dislike or to people involved with your business.” John braced his hand on Sherlock’s knee to get up from the floor, supporting his swaying balance as his feet prickled with thousands of needles. “But since you seemingly enjoy my company, I conclude that the reason for lying to me is the latter.”

“You’re treading on thin ice with deducing me right now.” John snarled, losing his temper.

“I can see through your sham battle with the world because you let me. And I don’t need to deduce you for that.” He shot John an accusing glance of treating him like an ignorant twit. “Do I have to remind you? You hooked up with me, a stranger with whom you don’t have to enter into any obligations. That’s why you chose me – a slut from the streets. And then you took me along to your business dinner – a PA, not only to help you with deducing your potential buyout adversary but also providing comfort in a pitiless reality. You presented me those two sides of you, _willingly_ , so stop lying with words to me when you already proved me the truth by _showing_.”

“What? For being courteous to you? Taking you to my hotel suite instead of forcing you to go back to Leicester Square?” John scoffed once again, but his face contorted into a grimace of self-disgust, yet he couldn’t stop his spiteful argument; the roots of his anxiety ran too deep. “As it is, Sherlock, I pay for your services. I am your business partner.” John had never depicted them as a customer and his prostitute. The blunt declaration contradicted his character trait of respecting other people with civility. To treat Sherlock as a service provider now degraded the man in his profession to a submissive instrument. John cringed at the realization.

“No,” Sherlock shook his head, defeated at the emphasis of their relation. “For trusting me.” Grabbing the corners of the sheet, Sherlock held his gaze with John, his eyes betraying hurt and vulnerability. He wrapped the sheet around his shoulders like John wrapped himself into a lie that protected him of getting hurt either. “You trusted me so far as to _show_ me those two worlds where you believe you belong to.”

Sherlock tugged at the tie until the knot opened and the smooth fabric slipped free. He pushed himself off the sofa and handed the shiny gray material over to John who sensed the heat of Sherlock radiating from the expensive cloth. Pain seeped through John’s every pore, clenching at his heart. _Why does it hurt so much?_

“It bothered you to perform your little act in front of me,” Sherlock continued, referring to John’s discomfort at the dinner last night when Sherlock observed his alter ego for the first time. Afraid the man might leave before John could comprehend his new latitude in which said man now pressed for a truth he was also afraid of. “Why? Why did it bother you when at the same time you so desperately want me to truly _see_ you?”

John became silent, the words processing in his racing mind, while inside raged a storm of conflicting emotions. The corners of his mouth tilted downward, desolation engulfing him. “Maybe it was a mistake.”

“No,” Sherlock emphasized, his voice sharp and exasperated. “How shall I work for you as an escort _and_ your PA when those two worlds collide with us in-between and you still lie to yourself?” Pale blue bored into John, waiting for an answer, but John’s tongue kept glued to his palate. “Clearly you’re conducting this business because you feel obligated to carry on the family company. You need to become your father whom you loathe so much.”

“Sherlock,” John warned, creasing the tie with a tight grip, nails digging red angry crescents into his palm. “This is far too private.”

“That’s what your dream was about, wasn’t it?” John finally dropped his stormy blue eyes at the memory of his upsetting dream in the morning. “You’re still not over your father’s _conservative_ attitude. If you were you wouldn’t have chosen me.” Would he? John’s gaze roamed unfocused to the vast window front which displayed the beauty of London by night. Due to the dimmed light, he could also see them reflected in the glass, tensing with an insurmountable gap between them as Sherlock faltered to regain his composure. “You’re still too afraid to strike up a real relationship with a man because you’re too anxious about how people might perceive you.” John understood that Sherlock didn’t only refer to his sexuality but also to his entire life. “This is destroying you, John. You betray yourself for the stupid sake of others.”

After Sherlock’s assertion, silence fell upon them. John had the sense that his heart pounded so loud in his chest that the other man might hear his devastated state. Saving the last bit of dignity, John jerked his head once in a noncommittal nod, pursing his lips as he buttoned up his shirt. The tie slid absent-mindedly through his fingers to the ground. He felt Sherlock’s piercing gaze on him before heading for the hallway to grab his jacket.

“Where are you going?” Those acute eyes shifted in confusion paired with a slight hint of panic.

“Out. I need some air.”

***

He walked through London’s streets for hours, even went for two pints in a pub. The conversation with Sherlock never released his mind as it replayed the scene over and over again. With his elbows braced on the wooden table, he raked his hands through his hair in despair. He knew that Sherlock was right: this whole fiasco started all those years back with his father. And he knew that he was hiding himself from the outside world behind a façade of seclusion. But what should he do? _I can’t just shed my skin like clothes and stop being a part of my self_. Harry with her alcohol abuse couldn’t lead the company. So he only had two options: either liquidate the company and divide the money between his sister and him or to carry on his father’s work. In the end, he decided on the latter after Harry begged him for keeping the firm, so she had at least something to do. He had hoped this would encourage and help her to stay sober. Thus, maybe one day, she might be able to take over the business and John might focus again on being a doctor.

However, after a year he realized his hopeless endeavor as to believe Harry would change. He acknowledged that Sherlock trotted out three truths: the man himself displayed a lie because John could never have a romantic relationship with a prostitute; John’s life itself presented an enormous lie since his father’s conservative education regarding his bisexuality – his father taught him to hide his true self; and the portray of John as the lie itself to not get hurt. All those lies prevented John from striking up a true relationship without hiding and leading a happy life.

Sherlock was so right, John reiterated the thought, and an invisible tight grip pressed on his chest, surging the truth and anxiety up his throat. The density of the farthest corner in the pub crashed down on him.

After leaving the stale air of the crowded pub behind, he sucked the oxygen of a crisp night into his lung, discharging the pressure on his chest a bit. He clung to his jacket to fend off the chill. _One can’t easily shed ones skin_. Yet, a small whisper in the back of his mind told him why he had chosen Sherlock; not only because he needn’t enter an obligation, but also because the man presented him an opportunity of breaking free from his self-imposed boundaries. That was why he let him in, let him see his two worlds. Deep inside, John had hoped that Sherlock might be the one helping him to shed his false skin; sometimes people just needed a little push into the right direction.

He found himself again in the foyer of the hotel. His hand flexed nervously as his gaze roamed to the elevators. He didn’t want to yet return to the hotel suite. His inner turmoil might acknowledge Sherlock’s words, but John yet didn’t feel secure enough as to let his mask entirely fall for the man. So he strolled through the hotel, marveling at some exhibited paintings along the walls available for purchase. Next to a painting tagged with two thousand pounds stood the open double-winged door to the ballroom. Looking into the vast room, it showed its emptiness apart from two men of the cleaning personnel. Chairs piled onto the round tables in the back of the room whereas a Steinway concert grand decorated the stage in front of the dance floor.

His curiosity roused, John crossed the room in long strides, the cleaning personnel ignoring the guest. The ballroom was sparsely lit despite the ambient light framing the stage. With the lid open, John looked amazed into the soundboard covered with tight strings. He rounded the grand and his fingers brushed over the keys painted with ebony and ivory, a brilliant clarity audible. A small smile hushed over his lips before he pulled up the cushioned bench. At random, he plunked the keyboard of the high-class instrument until he found the right notes in his childhood memories. Time slipped his attention as he finally pushed the never-ending train of thoughts into the farthest corner of his mind to focus solely on the smooth surface of the keys, coaxing timbres from the concert grand.

He was ripped from his musical illusion when a person appeared next to the grand. “I didn’t know that you play an instrument,” the velvety baritone stopped his playing.

“Two, actually.” John still looked at his now unmoving fingers, his heart skipping a beat at the reality of Sherlock beside him. “My father wanted me to learn the piano when I was a child, and later in school I decided for the clarinet just to break free from his tight grip on me.”

A deep-throated chuckle reverberated through Sherlock’s chest. John caught the sight of blue fabric from the corners of his eyes while still avoiding any contact with those two pools of mercurial silver. The silken material whispered elegantly when the man walked around John to take a seat on his left side. “I play the violin.”

“The violin?” John’s brows shot up. The man never ceased to surprise him.

“I love to elicit beauty from the simplicity of strings and horsehair.” His long fingers trailed the black and white keys affectionately which evoked John’s curiosity to drag his eyes away from his own hands. “I’ve never learned to play the piano, though. Will you play for me?”

John felt those piercing eyes on his face as they searched any reciprocation. “I don’t know. It’s been ages since I last played.” He looked down into Sherlock’s lap where the vee of the hotel’s exclusive dressing gown betrayed his bared knees beneath the smooth fabric. “Are you wearing anything underneath?” The question from earlier this evening echoed between them.

“No,” Sherlock replied, distracting John from the subject as he probed once again with a melodious undertone of a gentle reproach. “You’ve played for the cleaning personnel. Please, do play for me.”

John’s gaze drifted to the two men who seemed to ignore them. He bit his bottom lip as he watched them wiping the floor. After a moment of consideration, he spoke up, “Would you please be so kind to leave as us alone?”

The two men looked up. _Not so ignorant then_. They changed cursory glances with each other and nodded in affirmation. Abandoning their equipment cart, they walked through the double-winged door and closed it discreetly behind them.

John rummaged his memories once again. His arm brushed against Sherlock’s as he placed his fingers on the keyboard. The man’s breathing tickled at his ear as he still sought John’s dark blue eyes, but John shunned them, afraid of drowning in the ever-shifting colors and losing himself in the brilliant man.

The first notes filled the room with bright music as John coordinated the pedals with the keys. “Für Elise,” Sherlock hummed full of appreciation.

John played the piece from memory. Now and then, his fingers slipped off a key and the wrong note made him cringe. The heat radiating from Sherlock distracted his concentration and his mind began to race again, ruining his focus. Another note screamed at the failure of his treacherous fingers, and then another until his hands slammed down at the keyboard to fill the room with his annoyed thunder.

A warm hand curled around John’s wrist, eased the tension off the grip on the keys to slide it underneath John’s slightly sweaty palm in the effort to interlace their fingers. But John pulled his hand away, refusing himself the attempted comfort which dissolved into cold loneliness. “Look, this is difficult… _I_ find this difficult,” he rasped, emotions burst forth. “But I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to degrade you. I’m sorry.”

“John,” a calm rumbling vibrated through their connected shoulders. “Look at me.”

Reluctantly, he dragged his eyes to Sherlock, surprised to find the glacial stare replaced with a caring glance. “I am sorry,” he reiterated, despair vanished from his voice for the sake of sincerity.

“I shouldn’t have pressed.”

“It must be confusing to see my two worlds collide into a deception that I enforce upon myself.” John wrapped the words into bitterness, the stormy rage of the evening gone and, therefore, revealed a defeated revulsion. Sherlock’s hand reached once again for John’s, uncurling his tight fist to slide his palm into John’s. The touch conveyed warmth and reassurance that the man with his observing skills would let rest the subject. John’s eyes dropped to their interlaced fingers, a tingle running up his arm to his inner core, causing his heart to ache as Sherlock circled his thumb against his palm.

The atmosphere was charged with unspoken emotions of the last hours. The problems weren’t solved yet, John understood, but it depended on Sherlock if they would ever resolve. John didn’t dare look up as he imagined those perfectly shaped lips, too enticing to let them go ignored. The air seemed to drain from his lungs at the question that formed in his mind. “May I kiss you?” He didn’t even know why he wanted to kiss Sherlock. Maybe his mind played yet another trick to test his boundaries of how far he would go. A kiss would be much more intimate than any sexual act between them. John realized that he wanted the man in his entirety, not just as an instrument – a puppet – as he had denounced him earlier. Only then, he could also drop his façade of mistrust in its entirety.

Sherlock stared at John for a moment, processing the question before his gaze followed John’s to their entwined hands. Fingers flexed involuntarily under the scrutinizing eyes until Sherlock withdrew his hand. The loss of the touch filled John with a muffled emptiness and he knew the answer before Sherlock spoke up. “John, I…” the man shook his head. “I’m sorry.”

John pursed his lips to hide his disappointment and nodded. “It’s okay. You’ve made it clear from the beginning.” Instead of a kiss, John put his hand on Sherlock’s hip, a light pressure encouraging him to stand up and step between John’s legs. If he couldn’t kiss the man they might at least engage in what they had learned the last two nights about each other.

John got up, too, his body pressed flush against Sherlock’s as he clasped those narrow hips. “Someone might come in,” Sherlock rasped, arousal clearly taking over his body as his creamy skin mottled in a delicate blush.

“I don’t care,” John smirked, returning to their familiar ground of flirtatious behavior, a place where John felt safe. _No obligations_. His hands glided up those lithe flanks, ruffling the exquisite fabric. He stroked over firm planes of Sherlock’s chest to the vee of his dressing gown. The alabaster skin displayed a distinct contrast to the navy blue. John marveled, “God, you’re so beautiful. You shouldn’t have come down like this. People might talk.”

“People do little else.” The obvious tease made John grin wickedly.

He shoved Sherlock backward until his arse met the keyboard with a loud sonorous drum of the concert grand. Several keys clanged in an arbitrary composition as the man adjusted his position to sit onto the keyboard, his legs spreading in invitation for John. Stepping into the heat between Sherlock’s knees, John sensed the interested twitch of the man’s cock while his hand’s urged to reach for hot skin sliding them underneath the lapels of the dressing gown. With a slight push, John sent the fabric over Sherlock’s shoulders. A soft whisper of the material implied that it got stuck around the man’s waist where the sash bound the gown together. But John ignored the belt for now, his eyes glued to the exposed skin. He had seen the man naked before but never touched his torso above his waist. A soft dusting fueled his curiosity, and a splayed hand swept over his pectorals. Sparse hair tickled under his palm, reminding him once again of the moment after his dream when he had watched Sherlock asleep. _No curvy rounding, just plain muscles_. Still making comparisons, John cursed under his breath his father and forced those bygone memories into the farthest corner of his mind.

Instead, he focused on the pebbled nipple in front of him. John leaned forward without wasting a second thought anymore and closed his lips around the rosy bud. _As long as I run I have no time to think_. A small gasp escaped Sherlock’s mouth and he arched into the wet kiss. John’s tongue pressed against the protruding nipple which stiffened even more, poking against his tip in wanton response. He swirled around the bud until he sucked at the sensitive flesh. At the overwhelming sensation, Sherlock dropped his head back, shoulders resting against the painted spruce of the black grand and rocking his hips gently against John’s to increase the sweet friction.

John’s gaze roamed over the pale landscape of Sherlock’s body as he released the nipple with a cautious scrape of his teeth. Sherlock squirmed under the tender caresses. Now and then he evoked another chaotic composition with his arse. John’s fingers trailed the distinct up and down of the slender man’s ribcage. He smiled when he saw the skin erupting in goose bumps. “See, ticklish.”

“Shut up,” Sherlock groaned deep in his throat and put his feet onto the cushioned bench for leverage.

John replaced his fingers with his tongue then, composing a shuddering contrast of scraping teeth and soft strokes down the supple torso, devouring every inch and sensing every rumble of Sherlock vibrating beneath his lips. He tasted the faint fragrance of his shower gel and something that was purely Sherlock. When he brushed over a soft line of hair he inhaled the musky scent growing stronger around his navel and dipped a lascivious tongue into it.

Very responsive to John’s touches, Sherlock’s muscles flexed luxuriously under moving skin, a canvas painted in a lovely pink now. While John teased the navel with small bites he loosened the ribbon of the sash, unwrapping the man like a present.

With the dressing gown ruffled down to Sherlock’s buttocks, the man sprawled onto the concert grand, revealing his bared body for John in an act of vulnerable beauty. He was fully erect by now and his cock pressed against John’s chest with no sense of shame. John bent back, wanting to see the overall paragon of perfection. His own erection twitched in the trousers and he adjusted the zipper. Sherlock’s legs trembled slightly at the body tension to support his weight on the narrow keyboard. So John cupped his knee, stilling the tremor and bracing him. Curious, he ran his tongue from the rather coarse skin of the inside of Sherlock’s thigh to the softer skin of the crease between leg and hip, trailing tiny kisses at the juncture along to the base of Sherlock’s jutting cock. The tenderness evoked shivers of a different kind. John heard Sherlock drawing a sharp intake of breath and sighed his name in appreciation, “John.” His knee relaxed and he let it fall to the side, granting John better access.

“Please tell me, you have a condom with you,” John begged literally, his eyes trailing the long vein along the other man’s prick. He wanted that. He so wanted that and remembered his hysterical laugh of the morning, realizing what he was about to do.

“Left pocket.”

For a moment, John abandoned the radiating heat of Sherlock to rummage the thin fabric of the dressing gown. He retrieved the package and didn’t hesitate to rip it open. Pressing the tip between thumb and index finger, he began to unroll the latex along the length of Sherlock who suddenly jolted up, looking confused.

“It’s okay,” John husked, his own arousal too far gone already than to stop now. “I want to do this if that’s alright with you.”

Sherlock considered the proposal for a moment and then nodded. He leaned back again, the edge of the wood pressing into his shoulders. John had learned from their last encounters that Sherlock relished tender touches of kisses and licks, but never assumed to be the receiver of such caresses. Maybe this was due to the fact that he didn’t like sentiment, so he denied himself to experience such affection. Or maybe no one ever had inclined themselves to give Sherlock pleasure, ignored his longing by selfish reasons as they regarded him as an instrument.

Sherlock’s chest rose and fell shallowly in anticipation when John ducked his head, his right arm snaking from under around Sherlock’s thigh to support his weight – a symbol for an embrace that the man refused John as too intimate.

He kissed the flushed head, the reservoir already filling with sticky fluid, portraying the desire Sherlock felt for John. The kiss was chaste, nearly innocent as John kept his lips closed and waited for any possible revulsion at what he performed right now. But it never happened. John looked up in amazement to find Sherlock with blown wide eyes gazing down at him. It didn’t bother John, not in the least. On the contrary, he liked it being watched. It fueled his own arousal where his cock screamed for attention. _Later_.

His dominant hand curled around the base of Sherlock’s shaft and he pressed his tongue into the slit covered with latex. A hiss from above caused a glance back at Sherlock who rolled his eyes back into his head and John’s erection gave a sympathetic jerk. Sherlock put the back of one hand between his teeth to prevent himself from any noises.

John frowned at the sight, “No, don’t. Let me hear you.”

“Might wake other guests,” Sherlock groaned around his hand.

“I don’t care. Fuck the other guests.”

“No,” Sherlock let his hand fall to the keyboard, fingers gripping at the underside of the white keys instead. “I want you.”

A smirk crossed John’s lips. “Good.”

He mimicked Sherlock’s blowjob and licked with his flattened tongue from shaft to head, tracing the pulsing vein which had fueled his curiosity a few minutes ago. Encouraged by a long exhaled moan from above, John circled the ridge around the glans. He was surprised how smooth and flawless Sherlock’s cock felt despite the thin layer of latex. Yet, a slight pang of disappointment flashed through him that he couldn’t truly taste the man. He liked Sherlock’s scent, a mix of his personal musk and the woodsy note of his shower gel, a fragrance making John dizzy.

Placing another kiss at the leaking head, John grew bolder, parting his lips and sucking carefully at the tip. He waited for any response from Sherlock, trying to memorize what the man liked. When he touched him last night, John had realized that he preferred a firmer touch. So he slipped his lips down to the flared ridge, pressing and rubbing his tongue against the glans. A groan evaporated into the air, and John felt the lithe muscles in Sherlock’s thighs flex deliciously, pushing ever so slightly forward. John hollowed his cheeks then and sucked him in as far as his gag reflex allowed. He couldn’t swallow Sherlock’s prick as deep as the man did, but he tried.

Sherlock’s cock laid heavily between his tongue and palate. The sensation was exquisite and seductive as he gave pleasure to Sherlock. The flesh still stiffened under the strokes of John’s tongue along the man’s length. Somewhere in-between the caresses of John’s mouth and the sharp musky scent emanating from Sherlock’s sparse pubic hair, John lost his self-control when his hand fumbled with the button and zipper of his fly. He moaned around Sherlock, saliva trickling down his chin when he finally got a relieving hold of his own cock.

“John, stop.” A hint of a reproach resonated in that husked baritone. Afraid he might have overstimulated Sherlock or even caused him pain, John let the erection slip from his mouth. He looked up as Sherlock braced his hand on the keyboard to sit up, a slight sheen of sweat glistening in the ambient light of the stage. “Don’t touch yourself.” Sherlock’s eclipsed eyes dropped to John’s prick. “Come here.” Sherlock slid a bit down from the concert grand while John stepped closer. He batted John’s hand away and replaced it with his own. John nearly keeled over at the overwhelming sensation of Sherlock’s warm hand. A prickle crawled over his body, rippling his skin, and molten blood flooded through his lower abdomen. Sherlock’s thumb brushed over the leaking head, spreading the slick fluid. “A bit closer now.”

When John pressed himself against Sherlock it dawned on him of what the other man had in mind. His eyes kept glued to Sherlock’s hand, languorous strokes causing his jaw to drop, panting for the much-needed oxygen. “Sherlock?” But instead of a reply, the man withdrew his hand to align their cocks and curl his large hand around both of them.

John drew another sharp intake of breath at the realization that both their most private parts were bonded by Sherlock. “Move, John.” He had to tear his clouded gaze from their connection. For a better angle, Sherlock leaned back again and John followed his motion, bracing his hand for leverage onto the keys. They coaxed another jumble of notes in an erotic waltz of intimacy when John began to roll his hips forward.

The first thrusts remained rather slow and lascivious as he spread his precum along Sherlock’s saliva-slicked cock. His whole body set aflame with electrifying impulses scorching his every nerve while invigorating his senses. He leaned forward to close his lips around Sherlock’s protruding collarbone, teeth scraping over the ridge, provoking a snap of Sherlock’s hips. The sensation of the man rocking against him was intoxicating and pushed him into the abyss of endless liberation, chasing the sweet passion that tightened his stomach ready to burst free. His knees buckled at the overwhelming desire, and Sherlock twisted one leg around John’s hip while his free hand gripped the other hip to support his trembling weight. “Oh God, Sherlock,” he moaned at the increased pressure. His own hands grabbed Sherlock’s arse as his movements became more erratic.

Their ragged breaths mingled in the huffs escaping their lips, forbidden to kiss each other. Sherlock’s heel dug into John’s arse and his hand tightened its grip around their slick cocks, accompanying each of John’s stabs with a slight stroke. His deep baritone rumbled in his throat in a groan, “I can’t hold back any longer.” John’s ministration before had sent him too far already.

“It’s okay. Let go.” With his own prick rock hard by now, his hips snapped into the delicious slick warmth of Sherlock’s hand, drunken on the captivating friction between palm and the other man’s erection. His balls pulled tight against his body when Sherlock dropped his head into his neck and arched his body into John’s embrace. With wavering lips rolled a deep rumble over Sherlock’s vocal chords, betraying the stormy relief of his orgasm. John couldn’t help but watch Sherlock coming undone in a likeness of voluptuous pleasure. It was the last spur John had needed to get pushed over the edge, too. Undulating waves carried him along the sweet current of his own climax as his head fell against Sherlock’s chest, muffling his shout and finding the much-needed ground to not get lost in sensation. His whole body tensed and relaxed just to tense again in the recurring surges of his release when at last, an all-consuming shudder drowned him into bliss.

Sweat glued them together in the afterglow as they panted for breath to come down of their shared high. Sherlock’s hand had slid up to cup John’s cock, preventing another ruined suit. John retrieved a handkerchief from his pocket, wiping off blindly before he leaned back from Sherlock’s glistening chest to clean himself.

“You feel fantastic,” John said without thinking, and Sherlock’s eyes sparkled in response. John didn’t just mean it the way Sherlock felt naked against him or while coming undone; no, he meant Sherlock as an entity – all his brilliance, his beautiful mind, his attempt in comforting John.

While John helped Sherlock into his dressing gown, binding the sash into a ribbon again, Sherlock watched his every move. “Maybe I let you kiss me one day.” Surprised by the declaration, John looked up into the ever-shifting eyes of mercurial silver, glacial blue and emerald green. They stared at each other for a long moment before Sherlock drew a sharp breath, “We should go now. The cleaning personnel certainly want to finish their job.”

That caused John to break into a giggle. “With that noise we just made, people definitely will talk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope to update the next chapter on January 28th, but since RL is catching up with my beta it might well be that the update will delay a bit. If you want to catch up with me you’ll also find me on [Tumblr](http://nymeria578.tumblr.com/).


	4. Innocence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m so sorry that this update took longer than expected, but since I started working fulltime again I barely find the time to write and edit. So I think I’ll refrain from updating every second week to every three or four weeks. 
> 
> As always a huge thanks goes to my wonderful beta [GhostTari](http://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostTari/pseuds/GhostTari) who, despite some wild running RL, provided her invaluable help. If you still find some mistakes I’ll take the blame.
> 
> And of course thanks for all the kudos and lovely comments! They’re making my day :)

A twinge in his bad leg woke him, and he rolled on his side toward the softness in the middle of the mattress. With his thighs tucked up he curled into a ball, relieving some tension in the knee to soften the pain. Unlike the other mornings, the sun didn’t paint the curtains with a golden hue, disclosing an overcast sky. A faint drumming implied that rain sprinkled droplets against the window front, underlining any desire for staying in bed to relish the warmth of the duvet while his body relaxed in the fetal position. However, Sherlock seemed to have a different kind of imagination of a lazy day as he was already up, his side of the bed empty and cold.

With a pang of disappointment, John rolled on his back again stretching his numb limbs. _So much for indulging in the glorious nakedness!_ John thought as he remembered Sherlock’s promise of last night. The man had slept naked, though, but it was of no avail when Sherlock decided to leave John alone in the vast bed. A frustrated groan wavered in his throat at his thwarted plans. But the twinge in his leg reminded him of his overused joint, and he knew that he needed to take it slow the morning, anyway. Still, a bit of cuddling would have been nice.

_Not really my area._

The words echoed in John’s mind, evocative of their nonexistent relationship. Amidst their little disagreement, Sherlock had pointed it out – they were business partners bound by a verbal contract. And as long as the man maintained the self-imposed distance there wouldn’t be any cuddling during the remaining four days.

Heaving a sigh, John pushed the duvet aside. _Then there’s no reason for a lazy lie in_. He moved with reluctance as he abandoned the cozy warmth of the bed. _Luckily we have the fitting later, so there’s no excuse for covering any disappointment_.

After a careful flex of his knee joint to secure a steady balance, he noticed the missing noises in the hotel suite – no splashing of water in the shower, no running telly news, nothing beside the quiet susurrus of the central heating. Only the thunderous rush of his pulse throbbing in his ear whitewashed the hollow emptiness of the suite.

Where was Sherlock?

An inner agitation tightened his stomach, yet his conscious rationality twitted at his physical reaction. _He must be somewhere_. Barefoot he trudged over the velvety carpet to the bathroom, each step spoiled by yielding softness while the pain in his leg slowly faded. _Maybe he’s just shaving_? John mused, remembering the faint scratch as his lips brushed along the angular jawline. It had felt so unfamiliar, yet so arousing as well.

He needed to use the toilet anyway. But as he entered the bathroom, John just found the lingering humidity of a hot morning shower. While relieving himself the fragrances of Sherlock’s shampoo and shower gel hit his olfactory senses, and he wished he would have woken earlier to join the man in the shower. But then, would he have allowed it?

After splashing cool water into his face to invigorate his senses, he shook off his irrational sentiments of loneliness and self-doubt. Back in the bedroom, he pulled the curtains back to look through speckled glass. A dark gray painted the clouds rolling by the window front. They reflected the still subdued mood after yesterday’s emotional exhaustion. He had two days off now if nothing business-related would interfere. Once they finished the fitting, John decided he would take Sherlock out for a long brunch, enjoying the man’s company as he would make a fuss about the idiocy of some people in a mock play tinted with seriousness. And John would giggle about the irrevocable truths about others to deter Sherlock from deducing the man who paid him.

A faint rustling tore John’s gaze from Sherlock’s self-proclaimed battleground. _Still an odd wording_. He mused, awareness spreading that although the man could read him like an open book John barely knew Sherlock. His ears straining for the sound, he released the grip on the curtain and walked to the living room which he also found empty. Yet, the door to the study was ajar and another whisper of paper aroused his attention. What could Sherlock be doing in the study?

As he appeared in the door Sherlock indeed sat in the revolving leather chair at the desk, rummaging through John’s paperwork. At first, John was surprised if not suspicious about Sherlock reading the credit agreement from the bank. Why would an ordinary escort from the street take any interest in financial affairs? Even though Sherlock had proved on several occasions that his knowledge exceeded John’s, him skimming through the juridical passages of a contract which John hardly understood made him a bit skeptical. Kitty’s words still rang in his head, nagging at his trust.

“This is really tricky, John,” he said without looking up from the documents.

“Didn’t it occur to you that reading my _confidential_ contracts might cross a line?” Although John’s voice sounded casual it also resonated with a hint of a mild warning.

Sherlock’s gaze lifted to meet John. “Do you understand this?” Ignoring John’s question, he frowned in genuine concern.

John’s eyes followed Sherlock’s fingers pointing at the content of the contract. “Not all,” John conceded with a sigh, closing the gap to the desk. He was a doctor, not a banker who had studied business administration. His expertise relied on three heavy books he had read during the last year and the people surrounding him in this business. “Therefore, I have a lawyer to focus on economics.”

“She’s an ignoramus, not well-informed. And to conduct such a buyout without knowing all the relevant facts can just be considered foolish.”

“She?” John blinked at the man’s deduction of his lawyer’s gender.

“Found your schedule plan,” Sherlock tapped on the edge of John’s laptop, a faint light radiating from its display. “Kitty Riley.”

John’s expression slipped into a bewildered gape as he grabbed his laptop, closing it with an audible snap. “It’s password-protected and certainly very _confidential_.”

“Took me mere seconds to crack it,” Sherlock shrugged his shoulders, unaware of any guilt.

“Jesus,” John scrubbed a hand over his face at the ignorance of the brilliant mind. “Sherlock, you can’t read my stuff. Do you realize what that looks like?”

Silence stretched between them as Sherlock considered John’s words. He uncrossed his pajama bottom clad legs to get up, the blue dressing gown whispering in the fluid motion. “I’m not some spy prying about your confidential documents if that’s what you mean.” He raked an exasperated hand through his still wet curls, evoking a fresh wave of a woodsy fragrance from the shower gel. “You hired me as your PA.”

“To help me with Dimmock’s body language, not to read company-internal material. I have employees for this.”

“You should fire them all,” Sherlock snapped as he ran out of patience. “They’re all idiots to not know or at least inform themselves that the bank you’re seeking the credit for your leveraged buyout belongs partially to Magnussen.”

“What?”

“Of course, this doesn’t mean anything, but your company’s real property, even if small compared to your non-property business, functions as a security interest in form of a mortgage. If the deal fails, Magnussen just needs to snap his fingers to get at your real property. The contract here states a risk of seventy percent if you lose the bargain, but in reality, you might lose over ninety percent which could end in a bankruptcy.”

John looked taken aback, his mind racing in search of a solution before he blurted out, “Then we’ll look for another bank for the deal.”

“It doesn’t change the fact that your company’s property will be held by the bank,” Sherlock’s features softened as he tried to reason John. “Any bank in fact. And if Magnussen offers the right price they will sell it. To use this bank now makes it just easier for him, so he doesn’t necessarily have to spend any money of his assets.” He took a deep breath. Despair caused Sherlock’s eyes into unfocused confusion as if he looked at a blank page to find the final proof – despair of not knowing. “I don’t understand why he would want to do that. Usually, Magnussen’s not interested in companies with small real estates. Usually, he wants to use them as a leverage so to have a finger in every pie. He’s known for blackmail without remorse and stops at nothing. The question is why he wants to get to you?”

John released a breath he hadn’t recognized he had been holding. “You mean I have something he wants?” Rummaging his memory for any hint of why Magnussen might be interested in him or his company, John’s mind raced but couldn’t find any connection. Beside the incident with Mary, he never had anything to do with the media mogul. _Maybe this has something to do with Mary?_

“Or at least, you’re an interim stage for a far bigger deal,” Sherlock contemplated loudly. “Another puppet for his company.”

“But my private assets wouldn’t be affected by the deal?”

Both men looked down at the cluttered sheets from the folder that included the contract. “No, you fall under the law of the Limited Liability Companies Act. So your personal assets are safe.”

John nodded with one affirmative jerk of his head. “Thanks for your insight, but next time you better ask before you dig into my work.” It was a mild warning for Sherlock not to overstretch any friendly boundaries in which they moved.

“I think we better hurry a bit in order to be on time for the fitting,” Sherlock said, dropping the subject for a safer ground where they could dance around each other without the fear of crossing the line which divided their worlds.

After putting the loose sheets back into the folder, John locked the contract in the hotel safe and headed for the bathroom to take a shower. A slight pang of wistfulness overcame him once again that he hadn’t woken earlier to share the shower. But then Sherlock wouldn’t have read the contract and thus couldn’t have told him about the absolutely important detail of Magnussen sitting in the board of the bank.

_Damn!_ The man was better informed than his own employees. _He’s right. I should fire them all_. _But how in hell does he know so much about the financial sector?_ John shook his head in disbelief, again trying to shrug off the small whisper from Kitty Riley. “He’s a bloody genius and knows everything,” he mumbled to reassure the nagging sensation. _Sherlock should be anywhere but in the streets selling his body_.

Since John had returned from Afghanistan, and in particular since he had inherited the company, his life followed certain procedures. Everything was planned. There rarely remained space for spontaneity. When he needn’t attend a meeting he would stay at home and read company-related documents or try to continue his autodidactic studies in economy. Only now and then, he went out for a pint of beer since his friend Greg was mostly busy himself. _Nothing happens to me_.

So John was all the more surprised by a call Sherlock received after the fitting which had involved several exceedingly embarrassing comments about an itching needle here and there. It kicked off some unforeseeable events which allowed John an interesting insight in the sublime madman.

While Sherlock pressed the mobile to his ear John observed how a serious attention faded for a glint of alertness that lit his eyes with giddy excitement. His pale blue sparkled with every fiber of his life as he walked back and forth on the pavement, listening to the other end of the line. Amused, John watched him since he had seen this eager energy in Sherlock merely lurking beneath the surface when he deduced people around them.

The second, he rang off and his gaze drifted to John, the giddiness vanished along with the restlessness of a pacing predator finding its prey. “What is it?” John frowned concerned at the abrupt turnaround of Sherlock’s mood.

Sherlock squinted at John, contemplating his options. “You’re a doctor. In fact, you’re an army doctor.”

“Yes,” John replied perplexed by reiterating the details Sherlock already knew.

“Any good?”

“Very good.” It was true. He had been a good doctor and he still craved for being one again.

“Seen a lot of injuries, then. Violent deaths.”

“Hmm, yes.”

“Bit of trouble too, I bet.” Sherlock drew closer, cocking his head while his eyes scintillated with the colors of the overcast day, charming a shiver spiraling down John’s spine.

“Of course, yes. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much.”

“Want see some more?”

“I… _What_?” The man wasn’t a serial killer, was he? Why would he suggest him to see corpses?

“This was Detective Inspector Sally Donovan from New Scotland Yard,” Sherlock held up his hand, the mobile waving at John. “Now and then, the police ask me to help them out.”

“The police consults you?”

“When they’re out of their depth – which is always – yes, they consult me.”

“As a private detective?”

Sherlock waved with his hand to flag down a taxi. “Sort of.”

“But the police don’t consult amateurs,” John blurted, too surprised about the fact that Sherlock not only worked as an escort but also as a detective. _That doesn’t make sense_.

Sherlock’s face darkened at John’s repeated blatant questions. “No, they don’t. It’s a long story involving my recreational drug abuse.” Sherlock put a definiteness to his words, implying the request to drop the subject. “I understand it means a breach of our contract, but I think you might enjoy this little quest and break free from your dull world.” When the cab pulled over at the curb Sherlock grabbed John’s gloved hand to emphasize his expectation. “Come with me?”

John’s hand tingled at the grip, an entirely different touch from those prior which usually intended to elicit an arousal. No, this touch conveyed prickling exhilaration in the want to share an adventure, and it was infectious as John’s skin rippled with goose bumps in an unforeseen anticipation. “Oh God, yes.”

During their ride to the crime scene, Sherlock typed away on his mobile while John fidgeted in his seat, his gaze unfocused on the outside world. With the unexpected call, a gap about Sherlock’s life opened up in front of John’s mind, realizing how little he actually knew about the man who had introduced himself as Shezza. He had taken Sherlock for granted – another prejudice – assuming that the prostitute from the streets portrayed Sherlock’s sole purpose.

“You have questions?” Sherlock mumbled without looking up from his phone.

John propped his elbow against the window frame, chin resting in his palm. “Why haven’t you become a proper detective?”

Nostrils flaring with a derisive snort, Sherlock admitted, “The discipline, the mandatory obedience toward idiotic superiors… that doesn’t work for me.”

John chuckled at the notion of the man unable to follow orders. How very different he was in that regard compared to John. Indeed, Sherlock held a massive ego, deeming all people besides himself as inferior. In a world of hierarchical structure, he would never accept other opinions. He would rather drive his colleagues mad. “You’re probably right,” John conceded, not daring to ask the unspoken question of why he became a hooker instead. “So where are we heading?”

“Crime scene in Brixton. Actually it’s a follow-up case. Four days ago, Mr. and Mrs. Loran were found dead in their house in Surrey. It looked like a murder-suicide committed by the husband. But now, their daughter had been found dead, too, in her flat near Brockwell Park. They have a suspect who’s on the run.”

“And you’ve been called to…”

“To observe and make my deductions as a consulting detective.” The giddiness returned into Sherlock’s eyes, illuminating them with a rapt challenge.

The rest of the drive, they remained in companionable silence as Sherlock skimmed through several newspapers on his mobile. John looked down at himself, relieved to not have chosen his usual armor of a bespoke suit which would be inappropriate for a possible murder crime scene. His palms rubbed expectantly over the coarse fabric of a blue denim jeans. With Sherlock’s impulsiveness so contagious, John sensed the sweet prickle of adrenaline boiling under his skin and rushing in molten blood through his veins to invigorate his whole body – a feeling he had missed since Afghanistan.

Twenty minutes later, John paid the cabbie while Sherlock darted for the police tape which cordoned off the normal world from a grotesque place full of unsolved puzzles. The constable at the tape screwed up his nose at the arrival of Sherlock but granted them access by order of the attendant detective inspector. Apparently, not all members of the Met appreciated the presence of an escort, John perceived with a frown, a sudden protectiveness overcoming him.

The flat of Ms. Loran was located on the second floor. Ignoring the offered blue coveralls, they just took a pair of white nitrile gloves and climbed the steps, passing a weeping woman and the constable who looked after her. _She definitely found the body_. John pursed his lips to stifle the uncomfortable impression of being in the wrong place. Several people from the forensics worked at the banister in hope of finding any telltale fingerprints. They shot the unusual couple confused and disapproving glances, but Sherlock seemed not to care, vigorously striding along the corridor to the flat as if he owned the place.

“There you are,” a woman with black curly hair greeted them on the threshold of the flat.

“Sally,” Sherlock nodded curtly. An undertone of aloofness resonated in the name.

DI Sally Donovan crossed her arms but stepped aside to admit Sherlock to the crime scene, her brown eyes a conflicting mix of condemnation and deep respect at the same time. Her whole composure screamed of frustration to have called the consulting detective, but it appeared that she was relying on his expertise. “Wait!” When John entered the flat, she raised a hand in front of his chest to stop him. “Who’s this?”

“He’s with me,” Sherlock explained, a reproachful timbre infesting his voice with annoyance, hinting that he didn’t want to elaborate.

“You know that’s not going to work with me. I’m not him. So, who’s this?”

John shifted his weight uncomfortably from one leg to the other at the piercing russet stare. He felt like an uninvited guest but could understand the DI as this was a crime scene of a probable murder, not some business dinner. “I can wait outside,” he offered, thumb pointing over his shoulder for the front door.

“No, you cannot,” Sherlock stressed as he locked determined eyes with John, allowing no argument. “I need your assistance.”

An ungracious snort escaped Donovan before she realized her inappropriate gesture. She cleared her voice, “Since when do you accept an assistant?”

“Since today,” Sherlock said with a spiteful quality to his voice. “This is Dr. John Watson. He was in the army and provides an outside eye, a second opinion for me. I can vouch for him.”

Donovan ran a suspicious glare up and down the stranger. After a moment’s consideration, she huffed defeated, “All right. Come along, but be warned it’s not nice to look at.”

Their shoes clicked on attrite parquet floor as she led them through a narrow hallway to the living room. John trailed in Sherlock’s wake, seeing how the man took every detail in, scanning the unfamiliar surroundings with intense eyes. He hadn’t seen Sherlock like this before, his sole focus on observing and absorbing the coat rack, the pictures on the wall, and the cluttered pair of shoes on the floorboards. Seemingly, he had withdrawn himself from the simplicity of the flat to string together every clue in his mind that the forensics had overlooked. But he didn’t just rely on his eyes, John noticed for the first time. Sherlock breathed the flat in, tried to discern the crime with all his senses as fingertips ghosted over each new piece of evidence in something that could best be described as pure devotion.

When they crossed the threshold to the living room, John nearly bumped into slim shoulders as the man came to an abrupt stop, staring at the burgundy-colored sofa. For a moment, John closed his eyes at the gruesome picture, yet the dead body of Kate Loran was imprinted into his mind. Her bloodshot eyes looked into the emptiness of the moving shadows against the ceiling, her skin tinted in ashen hues, and a dark blue painted her parted lips which portrayed a mute scream. She had slumped to the side so that her head lay on the armrest, the velvety fabric covered with strands of long black hair. The cause of death twined around her neck in a lethal grip – a cable tie. It pressed with all its vicious sharpness into the soft skin of the young woman, scratched open the flesh as thin streaks of dried blood ran down her throat.

“Her flatmate found her this morning when she came home from work.” DI Donovan’s voice tore John from the mental image, and he opened his eyes again, taking a shaky breath.

“The woman from downstairs?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes,” the DI confirmed. “They shared the flat for five years since they started together to study medicine. Ms. Kumar came home from her hospital’s night shift and found her like this.”

John opened the zipper of his short coat, the heat of the room pressing on his chest. He struggled for an even breath, ignoring the thorny tendrils of an anxiety attack raking up his spine; a horrid picture provided by his posttraumatic stress disorder. Sherlock drew closer to the body and knelt down in front of the sofa, his hand ghosting over the thick brown carpet before his eyes drifted to Ms. Loran. “John, have a look and tell me what you see, but be careful not to step too much onto the carpet.”

Frowning at the imperative, John leaned over the armrest. “It’s pretty much obvious of what I see, isn’t it?” His eyes roved over the petite body, trying to find any clue Sherlock might have already deduced. “Ms. Loran, in her early twenties I presume. Death by asphyxiation as she was strangled with a cable tie.”

“Was she?” Sherlock arched his eyebrows, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“She wasn’t?” John asked, uncertain.

“Not so obvious, though,” Sherlock braced his hands on his knees to push himself up. “You let your eyes deceive you as you might see but fail to observe.”

John’s eyes dragged back to the corpse. While the ghastly atrocity had hindered him from perceiving the whole picture in the first place, he now furled his brows at the missing part. “No evidence of a fight. Her clothing’s still intact and as far as we can tell there are no signs of trauma beyond the strangulation, no bruises on her arms or elsewhere.”

A proud smile curled around Sherlock’s lips. “Exactly,” he confirmed. “Wouldn’t you fight for your dear life if someone were to grab for your throat.”

At the affirmation of the consulting detective, John looked around in the living room and remembered the hallway. “There are even no signs of forced entry or a battle knocking the coffee table flying onto its side.” He looked at the mug filled with coffee intact instead of being splattered across the expensive carpet.

“Everything’s neat.” Sherlock nodded.

“Are you implying that this is not murder?” DI Donovan tossed in, her voice conveying disbelief. “The murderer could have tidied up afterward in an attempt to make a homicide appear like suicide.”

“Then why didn’t they leave any footprints?” Sherlock asked his hand waving for the floor. “The carpet is new. Its fibers are at least an inch long and very narrowly woven. So when you step on it –“ Sherlock proved it by pressing his profiled shoe onto the edge, “– you leave a footprint. Plus the brown color makes it even harder to overlook the imprint.” He emphasized the last sentence, sharp eyes scowling at the incompetence of the DI. John needed to purse his lips to bite back a grin when he spotted the flabbergasted inspector following the footprints of Sherlock’s black leather boots. “If our alleged murderer didn’t surprisingly turn into a flying fairy with a compulsion to clean their mess up I’ll say that Ms. Loran committed suicide.”

Donovan’s eyes roved over the carpet. Indeed, John recognized, there were no footprints or any indentations of a knocked down coffee table evident apart from the shoeless treads of Ms. Loran, skirting the small table and ending at the sofa. “Amazing,” he husked fascinated. He would never have paid attention to the carpet.

Sherlock shot him an approving smile, the silvery gaze sparkling at the praise to have solved one piece of the puzzle before turning to Donovan, “I want to talk to Ms. Kumar.”

Light of foot, Sherlock leaped downstairs again, his enthusiasm obvious at finding a lead prior to the police department. Under no circumstances, the man would follow a superior’s instruction, John recognized, amusement tugging at his lips. The DI warned Sherlock, “She’s in shock. So try not to be the usual arrogant freak.” The words dripped with cynicism, insinuating their unwanted association. John trailed behind, clenching his jaw at the callous words, and bit back a vicious comment about the DI’s overt hostility.

But Sherlock ignored her request as he darted at the young woman. “Ms. Kumar. My name is Sherlock Holmes. I am very sorry for the loss of your flatmate, but I need you to answer my questions.” Although Sherlock just expressed his condolences the man’s chiseled features remained impassive, his sole focus aiming at extracting any possible hint.

The young woman nodded, brushing freshly swelling tears away with her thumb while smudging her mascara still more. “Of course.”

“How would you describe your flatmate?”

Ms. Kumar’s eyes flickered between Sherlock and Donovan, apparently confused by the question, but when the DI nodded she swallowed for an answer. “We’ve known each other for five years when we started our study at uni. She didn’t have many friends, but among those she had she was much-loved, always helpful. It reflected her wish to become a doctor. So I don’t understand why anybody wanted her any harm…”

After a shuddering sob, Sherlock nearly rolled his eyes in annoyance but kept his countenance and pressed further. “Yes, that most often depends on the person.”

Ms. Kumar narrowed her eyes in bewilderment at Sherlock. “Just recently she met this guy. She said she became acquainted with him through her mother which I found a bit weird because she hated her mum. Her relationship with her father was way better.”

“Because she was gay?”

Even more perplexity settled in the deep lines of the young woman’s frown. “How do you know?”

“Shot in the dark. Next to her computer, the desk was cluttered with several pamphlets from the LGBT community.”

“Yes, since she entered uni she attended some of their meetings. And as far as I can tell she only dated women.”

“That doesn’t have to mean anything,” John spoke, drawing the attention toward him. “What if she was bi and started dating that bloke to please her mother for whatever reason.”

Sherlock squinted at John. Where before confusion and frustration had muffled this specific topic a surge of comprehension cleared his view. Under the scrutinizing stare of the detective, John averted his eyes, cursing himself for bringing up their little disagreement of the night before. Luckily, their wordless communication was interrupted by Donovan stepping forward while pulling a photo from her folder. “We have a suspect in her parent’s case. His name is Keith Tenner.” She showed the enlarged photo of the man to the small group. “We believe that he was having an affair with Mrs. Loran.”

“That’s him,” Ms. Kumar’s brows shot up as she recognized the young man.

“Now that’s a coincidence,” Sherlock said with mock glee.

“How do you know he had an affair with Mrs. Loran?” John pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to grab the missing piece of connection to the wife.

“We interrogated Ms. Loran after the death of her parents, and she remarked that her mother was having an affair. So we initiated a trace on her calls looking for a pattern with a number belonging to Mr. Tenner. His flat was lacking some essential belongings as if he had packed in a hurry to leave his home. While we tried to find him we also contacted his employer who explained that he didn’t show up at work for two days. He’s been missing since then, but we found this –“ Donovan pulled another paper from the folder, “– divorce paper in his flat. They belong to Mrs. Loran. Seems the wife wanted to file for divorce and hid the papers with her lover.”

“But didn’t you say it was murder-suicide?” John asked, remembering Sherlock’s explanation in the taxi.

“We can proceed on two assumptions: either Mr. Loran killed his wife in a fit of jealousy and then committed suicide, or Mr. Tenner lost it when Mrs. Loran decided she no longer wanted a divorce.” Donovan shrugged her shoulders. “Since Mr. Tenner is obviously on the run my bet is on him, especially now that Ms. Loran is dead, too.”

Sherlock, who had been silent for a while, returned to his vigorous self again. “Don't bet the house; you'll lose. Your theory doesn't fit all the clues.” He gestured with his hands like a sulky child, emphasizing his former deductions as if no one would pay attention to his words. His mercurial gaze locked with Ms. Kumar, searching any hint within the tearstained face, “Do you think Ms. Loran might have been suicidal?”

“What?” the young woman gasped at the sudden emotional revelation about a very private part of her flatmate. “You believe she committed suicide?”

“No signs of forced entry, no bruises or signs of a fight, no footprints besides of those from the supposed victim?” He tilted his head at the enumeration, feigning cluelessness whereas the answer already hid within the question. “This was suicide.”

“But the cable tie?” Ms. Kumar panted for an even breath at the gruesome idea of ending one’s life like this.

“Okay Sherlock,” Donovan interrupted, yanking him away from the young woman. “Ms. Kumar answered enough of your questions. Obviously, Ms. Loran wasn’t suicidal.”

“But she asked the right question,” his eyes bored into Donovan, hoping for understanding. “Why the cable tie? Why choosing a brutal death like this when she could have chosen a far gentler way.”

“Does it matter?” Donovan asked unnerved. “You’ve made your point, but we have no proof except several missing leads.”

“Then let me examine Keith Tenner’s flat.”

“We searched the flat two days ago and found nothing,” the DI sighed, rubbing her temples as if a dull throb pounded, threatening to crack her skull.

“Because your people are idiots,” Sherlock tried to reason the inspector, his words harsh but his baritone softening at the plea. “Give me five minutes and I will prove that it was suicide.”

Donovan puffed herself up in irreclaimable annoyance but gave in since she was at a loss to wrap up the case. So she drove them with her car to Keith Tenner’s flat. The drizzle of the gloomy sky had stopped, leaving fresh air that smelled of wet grass. John’s gaze followed the drying water streaks along the window pane of the back seat, the image of the strangled young woman vivid in his mind, provoking suppressed memories of war. Gruesome pictures of dying soldiers and local civilians emerged from his self-established mental prison. They caused a slight queasiness, prompting him to fidget in the seat in the hope to shake off the feeling. John had become a doctor to save lives not to witness people, even a few friends, losing them by a bullet, by an infection, anything; especially not like Ms. Loran had decided to end her life.

“How was she even able to do this?” John murmured rather to himself than to the other passengers in the car.

Sherlock looked at him for a moment, considering the question. “She took a sedative with the coffee to calm her nerves.”

“ _If_ it was suicide,” Donovan locked still doubting eyes with Sherlock through the rear view mirror.

“It was,” Sherlock’s voice cut like a razor blade through the argument, not letting himself get persuade by any other possibility. “Forensics will prove me right.”

After Sherlock’s assertion, silence draped over the car until they arrived ten minutes later at the flat. Donovan yanked off the police tape and unlocked the door to step aside for the consulting detective. Once again, John followed the man, trying to see what Sherlock observed, but failed. He saw a normal flat, small and neat like his own old bedsit with no hint for a brutal murderer.

Since Donovan waited at the landing, fumbling with her mobile, Sherlock relaxed at being not monitored with every step he made. John watched how the tension faded from the man’s posture, and how he returned to his agitated self, engulfed in restless energy as he pranced through the living room with impulsive enthusiasm. He opened drawers, rummaged through papers, then whirled around to fall onto his knees and lie flat on his stomach for a better view under the sofa bed. With lithe strength, he pushed himself up again and opened the stowage space for the bed. Delight sparkled in his eyes when he detected under the bed clothes a shoe carton neatly packed with handwritten letters.

While Sherlock skimmed the correspondences with excitement, John couldn’t bite back his smirk anymore. “You like this.”

Sherlock’s gaze flicked to John, the pale blue gleaming dangerously. “It drags me from a dull life now and then. My brain needs the work otherwise it’ll rot like so many others.”

John chuckled at the choice of word, but now that he came to know Sherlock better it made perfect sense. “It seems you have been hiding that part of your life from me,” he chided with feigned hurt, holding up a mental mirror to reflect Sherlock’s reproach from the day before.

“Not hiding,” Sherlock countered. “The opportunity failed to come along.”

Huffing a warm laugh, John shook his head at the madman. “You enjoy solving puzzles to feed your massive intellect? Most people would take evening classes.”

“Don’t tell me you don’t enjoy this,” the baritone resonated with a mild warning between smugness and seriousness.

And Sherlock was right, John acknowledged when the grin stretched his lips even wider in a tacit answer. For sure, he didn’t enjoy the gruesome fate of a death he had witnessed – murder or no murder – but the prickling sensation that whispered up his spine to let the hair at his nape stand upright in anticipation of what might come next. No well-planned days with scheduled meetings or dinners could ever induce those responses settling his stomach aflutter right now. Awareness hit him that this excitement was unconsciously provoked by Sherlock; not only by the man as an escort in the private sanctuary of his hotel suite, but also by the man as a consulting detective ripping John from his tedious life and carrying him along in a current of mysterious puzzles.

John dragged a long shaky breath when the man averted his eyes from the revelation of John’s self-perception. Blinking several times, Sherlock seemed confused with his own deductions about his contract partner but was distracted by something that draw his attention to the writing.

“Those are love letters,” Sherlock declared, wrinkling his nose.

“From Lizzy,” John read and suppressed a giggle at Sherlock’s irritation.

“What kind of name is that?”

“What kind of name is _Shezza_?”

Sherlock’s head snapped to John, a hint of reproach darkening his eyes. “Donovan,” he shouted to the landing.

“Found something?” the DI asked, letting her mobile slide into her jacket pocket.

“Have you seen these?” Sherlock flapped the letters in front of the inspector.

“Of course,” she pursed her lips in disapproval that Sherlock called her work into question. “But Mrs. Loran’s first name isn’t _Lizzy_ but _Helen_. Those letters aren’t connected to the case.”

“Aren’t they?” Sherlock mumbled, reading in flash speed to find any clue.

Paper rustled when he handed letter after letter over to John, so he could read them, too. _If Shezza is an alias for Sherlock, then why shouldn’t Lizzy be an alias for Helen?_

“Oh,” the vocal was barely above a breathed whisper before he looked at Donovan. “Who’s Tom?”

“Who?” the DI asked noticeably confused.

“Here’s a mention of a _Tom_ , a colleague and friend of Keith Tenner they both trusted, according to their correspondence,” Sherlock tapped with his index finger at the unfamiliar name on the paper. “So if we assume that _Lizzy_ is _Helen_ , then who is _Tom_?”

Donovan shrugged her shoulders, “I don’t know.”

Sherlock steepled his fingers and brushed the tips along his lips, reflecting their already gathered leads. “Do you have a trace on Tenner’s mobile?”

“Why certainly!” the DI replied. “But he has switched it off. His last call was three days ago.”

“Do you have a specific list of his calls from the last month?”

“Yes.” Donovan rummaged the folder for the detailed invoice of Keith Tenner’s mobile provider.

Along with the number of Mrs. Loran, they detected a recurring mobile number belonging to a Mr. Thomas Hawking. “Gotcha!” John huffed a laugh at Sherlock’s brilliance while the detective was already browsing the internet for any information about the man.

“Found him,” Sherlock smiled smugly and darted for the door. “Come on, John.”

“What?” Donovan called for the consulting detective to stop, “Holmes, wait! It’s not your case.”

“You know my methods, Sally. If the police show up at Mr. Hawking we might not get any information. I’ll text you.” With that said, he waved his hand to bid his goodbye.

The flat of Thomas Hawking was in the same borough, five streets running parallel from Keith Tenner’s block. Half running, half walking in long strides, John tried to keep pace with Sherlock. His bad leg remembered the strain of the last night, balancing Sherlock’s weight before a twinge caused his vigorous march into a slight limp. Yet the high, induced by adrenaline pumping through his system, made him run after the frantic restlessness called Sherlock Holmes. Ten minutes later, the spurt ended when they arrived at the entrance door to Mr. Hawking’s block of flats.

Sherlock skimmed over the vast name board. “Third floor.”

Within seconds, Sherlock picked the lock to the entrance door while John looked astounded about the never-ending skills he discovered over and over again in the man. He wasn’t just quite sure whether that particular method should worry him or not. Another pleasant shiver replied the question, and he realized that he would follow Sherlock everywhere. Though, he regretted one thing in entering a building with a possible suspect in a murder case, “I wish I’d brought my Sig along.”

“Hmm… next time,” Sherlock said distractedly as he tried to orientate within the labyrinth of long corridors of the huge block.

They climbed the steps two at a time and turned left for another corridor before Sherlock halted at a doorbell to push the button. When the door opened a young man in his mid-twenties looked through the crack, frowning at his uninvited visitors. “Yes?”

“Hi,” Sherlock pose shifted as he let his shoulders sag, his hands digging into his jacket pockets. Suddenly, he appeared gawky with his long limbs uncoordinated, betraying a tang of tentativeness. John needed to pull himself together as to not gape at the scene of perfect play-acting. Even Sherlock’s voice pitched by an octave, a hoarse slur underlining the fragile personality of an addict. “I’m a friend of Keith.”

Hawking sized Sherlock up, trying to find the missing piece in his mind of where he might have met the man in his torn jeans and black leather jacket. “Sorry,” he said confused. “Have we met?”

Sherlock shifted his weight on the other leg, a nervous trait portraying to distract the man from too much contemplating. “No, but we have a common friend – Keith Tenner. He’s been missing for a couple of days. I remembered he mentioned you and thought you might tell me where he is.”

The man frowned at the stranger while John stood next to the door, out of Hawking’s sight. “Sorry, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

As Hawking was about to close the door, Sherlock slammed his flat hand against the wood, his eyes desperate and pleading. “Please, if you know where he is will you tell him that Billy asked to buy some of his stuff?”

A slight hesitation flickered over Hawking’s face before he shook his head, just the smallest of a movement. “Piss off.” He knocked Sherlock’s hand away.

As soon as the door clicked shut, Sherlock’s composure returned, his back straightening and the despair slipping from his face. He whirled around and strode back the corridor while John trailed in his wake, confused and baffled. At the landing, he puffed an annoyed breath. “Sherlock? What was that about?”

“Observation.”

“And what did you observe?” John realized that Sherlock, riveted by connecting the leads, tended to withdraw from reality whereas surrounding people got left out and became redundant.

“That Mr. Hawking is a liar.” Sherlock stopped his rushing off several flights of steps downstairs, looking up at John. “His body language implies as much. He didn’t deny knowing Keith Tenner and he hesitated at the prospect of gaining money. Surely, Tenner isn’t working at the moment so he’s missing an income. I smelled Marijuana hidden in a tobacco package back in a drawer of his flat. Either he’s consuming it and/or he’s selling it. Hawking considered my proposal for a second. But the most important clue unfolded behind the door: a mattress arranged in front of the sofa bed which indicates that Mr. Hawking is sharing his flat at the moment.”

“And what are we going to do with these information now?”

“A stakeout. Apparently, Mr. Tenner wasn’t in the flat since I saw but one pair of shoes. It’s safe to assume that he’ll return this evening.”

Outside the building, Sherlock scanned their surroundings for a potential hideout. Over the street stood a row of fenced-in refuse containers where they could conceal their presence from plain view to the entrance. They positioned themselves behind the containers, still able to survey the front door, and waited. For the first time since they met Sherlock fished a cigarette from the inside pocket of his jacket. Although John despised smoking he watched Sherlock’s movement in mesmerized fascination – how his long fingers delicately rolled the filter between thumb and index finger for a second before those lush lips curved to suck at the butt, inhaling the noxious smoke to absorb it into his beautiful body.

Since this morning, they had been in motion, unable to take a breath. And now, within the vibrant hurricane of Sherlock Holmes that dragged John along in his vortex of events, a clue forced them to a halt where John remembered their usual dynamic of physical intimacy. At this moment, John realized that not only his life was divided by two worlds, but Sherlock’s, too. Before Sherlock might catch John staring at him, he decided to stay in Sherlock’s world of chasing criminals as he deemed it far safer waters for a stakeout than an emotional turmoil. “You might be on solid ground with your deductions about the murder-suicide of Mr. and Mrs. Loran.”

“Of course I am.” A pleased smile curved along Sherlock’s lips.

“But can you prove it?”

“I am proving it,” Sherlock nodded his chin toward the building, implying that the last piece of the puzzle would be Keith Tenner.

John chuckled at Sherlock’s oblivion. “You know, somehow you already can prove it.”

A frown drew a crease over the bridge of Sherlock’s nose. “How?”

Shaking his head at the brilliance of the madman, John couldn’t believe that he had missed a very important piece in the murder of Mrs. Loran. “The letters,” John explained. “Keith Tenner would never have murdered the woman he loved.”

“How could the letters prove his innocence?”

“Those are handwritten love letters, Sherlock. Nowadays, we use mobiles to keep in touch or write emails, but actually sitting down and write a letter with a pen… that’s old school and proves a deep connection between both writers. She wanted the divorce and her husband freaked out over it and killed her in a fit of jealousy.”

“Sentiment?” Sherlock asked, incredulous about John’s deduction.

John nodded. “I believe so.”

“Sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side,” Sherlock muttered, his eyes focused again on the front door.

John’s stomach twisted in knots at the clinical, if not scornful, remark which bore a sharp contrast to the man’s actions. Albeit his words begged to differ, their intimate encounters implied more than the detached experience of passionless sex. Sherlock didn’t just focus on finishing a job, and John wasn’t just the receiver of such pleasure. No. What they shared last night portrayed more the tenderness of lovemaking. “You’ve never been in love?”

Sherlock dragged on the cigarette, smoke swirling around his marble-white face before he flicked the butt onto the street. “Does it matter?”

Uncertainty darted over Sherlock’s face for the first time, but John didn’t relent. “Yes, of course.”

“Because you’re a romantic,” Sherlock retorted, but the words lacked the venom for the topic.

John smiled sadly in response. Sherlock’s words might have been an endearment, a tender confession to praise John on his emotional side, but knowing the man he noticed the blunt statement spoken with no hint of affection. The realization clenched at his heart as they danced around the subject. Avoiding any elaboration in fear of rejection, John concentrated on the task at hand. “I just don’t get how Ms. Loran fit into the scheme?”

“Therefore we need to catch Mr. Tenner.” The words echoed with a definiteness that approved no further questions, and so they remained in a silence as Sherlock retreated into his mind to knit all clues together. John looked at the beauty of the escort with forlorn wistfulness and marveled at the brilliant mind of the consulting detective. _What a waste_. Yet, if Sherlock would have decided to become a proper detective they would never have met.

A sudden motion in his peripheral view tore him from his contemplations. Sherlock tensed, craning his neck for a better view to the street. John followed his gaze and recognized the man from DI Donovan’s folder. Without hesitation, Sherlock dashed for Keith Tenner. When the man in his shabby clothes noticed the pursuer he whirled around to run off, but John had predicted the escape route and circled him to cut his way off. Tenner tried to shove past John. However, before he could carry out his plan, John proved despite his compact structure an eager strength which lay hidden beneath the many layers of clothing. He grabbed a wrist, twisted it in his hand to distort the underarm on the back of the man, preventing him from fleeing.

Tenner yelped and spat curses in the vain attempt to free his fixed arm until he gave up with a grimace contorted with pain. John leaned closer for better leverage while his grip tightened around the man’s thin wrist. “Don’t move, or you’ll sprain your arm.”

The man’s shoulder joint creaked suspiciously, and a wail escaped Tenner. “Please let me go. I didn’t do it.”

“What are you referring to?” Sherlock narrowed his eyes to slits, taking in every detail of body language.

“I didn’t kill her, I swear.” Some of the man’s strength left him and he sagged defeated into John’s loosening grip. “She wanted to pin the murder on me.”

Sherlock’s silvery gaze shifted in the dim light of dusk, glinting with serious determination. “I believe you.”

Baffled, Tenner stared at the man in his worn clothes, considering his options. “She hated me.”

“Ms. Loran?” John asked, lowering Tenner’s arm a bit to take the tension off his shoulder joint.

“Yes,” the man replied, tears swelling in his eyes. “She thought I was taking money from her mother like a prostitute. She deemed me too young as to have an affair with Helen. When she found out about us, she came to me, threatening to reveal it to her father if I wouldn’t pay her half of what I’d gain for having sex with her mother. I told her that I didn’t take any money and that I loved Helen. She just laughed, not believing a word.” A sob shuddered through his body, causing John nearly to lose his grip on the sweaty hand. “So when she came to collect the money I couldn’t give her anything. She looked so angry, and the following day I’ve learned that Helen and her husband were dead.”

“A bit suspicious to run and hide away,” John frowned.

Tenner slanted his head to glance at his captor. “I know, but I was so afraid because it looked like I would have done it.”

“Either you or Mr. Loran,” Sherlock tossed in.

“She hated me,” he reiterated. “Kate… she wanted to take revenge on her mother for not accepting her sexuality, for cutting off her money supply for uni. She loathed her mother, so she tried to destroy our relationship. After blackmailing me, she threatened to destroy my life, too, because I indirectly destroyed her father’s life. So she committed suicide to make it look like a murder.”

“How did you learn about it?” John shifted his weight, his bad leg taking its toll for supporting the unsteady balance of the man.

“I watched telly in the morning, and the borough mentioned in the report matched, so I went to check on my assumption.” Tenner’s shoulders hunched forward while John dropped his hand now that they had heard the entire story which made complete sense, according to the clues.

Sherlock straightened his back and retrieved his mobile from his pocket. “Even the police see but fail to observe,” he mumbled complacently as he typed away.

“What?” Tenner lifted his face, confused about Sherlock’s remark. “You’re not the police?”

“Consulting detective,” Sherlock explained before Tenner bolted forward, pushing with all his might against Sherlock’s chest. Losing his balance, Sherlock staggered backward until his boots met the curb, and he fell ungainly on his bum.

“Sherlock?” John knelt beside him, but the detective turned down his helping hand.

“I’m fine,” he grumbled. “After him. Or we’ll lose him.” Within a second, Sherlock regained his composure along with his dignity to dart after the suspect.

“Why is he fleeing again?” John panted as he tried to keep pace with the taller man.

“Because we’re not the police. Why should he trust us when the police don’t believe me?” Sherlock gained speed, outrunning John who struggled not to drop behind.

Tenner, who had lived in this district for a while, knew the streets inside out and dashed for every shortcut over bins in the back yards. Twilight set upon London, darkening the streets which made it hard to detect Tenner’s shape in the growing shadows of narrow alleys. John perceived the ragged breathing of Sherlock beside him as the man’s face contorted into a firm grimace of utmost concentration. Now and then, he shouted orders which way they should head, albeit Tenner sprinted for another alley. Apparently, the genius had a map of London in his mind.

By the time, they reached a railway station John’s lung burned with the effort to even out his gasping as to not get a side stitch. _Jesus, I’m so out of shape_ , he cursed under his breath. They had crossed the bridge to the platform, and Sherlock took the last five steps in a single bound. When he sped up John lost his earlier advantage since his knee and hip began to twinge while he tried to catch up with the slender figure, dimly outlined in the sparse light of the platform.

In the middle of the station, a throng of passersby stretched before him, blocking his path. John meandered through them, shoving and pushing while mumbling apologies. At some distance, Sherlock shouted, “Come on, John.” He broke through the cluster of people swearing at his rudeness and detected Sherlock several meters ahead on the stairs leading to the main street. Climbing the stairs, his muscles ached with each movement, a hot race of sinews and flesh, causing his heart to thump with an erratic rhythm while adrenaline buzzed in his veins. Curiously, he didn’t sense the pain. It was more of a tingling sensation lurking under the surface which reminded him of being alive with every fiber of his body. So he appreciated it, embraced it because for the first time since he returned from Afghanistan he felt pulled back again to the battlefield – Sherlock’s self-proclaimed battleground – set in alert mode with his senses tuned to focus on catching an innocent murder suspect.

When he reached the tread of stairs he took a fortifying breath before following the dark shadow of Sherlock’s smooth silhouette. His shoes thundered on the wooden floorboards of the roofed bridge as he crossed the junction to the street, with each long step gaining on speed. Adrenaline had peaked and rushed in mere seconds through him, triggering a light-headedness to overcome his physical capacities. He took two stairs at a time downstairs before hearing the sudden squealing of car tires on a wet tarmac, followed by a muffled thud.

John’s eyes widened at the noise, taking the last stairs with a dart. Confused from where the sound had emerged his head snapped from one side to the other scanning the street. “Fuck,” he breathed as he dashed for the scene where people were already gathering around the accident, obscuring his view. _Sherlock!_

Roughly, he grabbed a man at his shoulder to yank him out of his view, shoving himself past the crowd of people. In front of him unfolded the whole accident with a heavy indentation at the headlight of a car, and Keith Tenner laying a few meters flung forward with Sherlock crouching beside him. “Thank God,” he whispered relieved.

The very second he arrived at the accident, John donned the long lost but never-to-be-forgotten role of a doctor he once was. His eyes examined Tenner with one trained look as he knelt down, a small puddle soaking his jeans. He leaned over the man and checked his breathing. _Shallow, but steady_. His fingers pressed against the pulse running with the carotid. _Slightly increased_.

“Call an ambulance,” he ordered to the driver of the car, reverting to the commanding tone of an army captain.

He bent over the man’s face whose eyelids fluttered while his features winced in unspoken pain, caught between consciousness and blackout. “Keith? Can you hear me?” A quiet grunt escaped the man’s lips.

“John,” Sherlock’s voice conveyed a question accompanied by a mild warning that something might be wrong.

John followed Sherlock’s glacial stare to Tenner’s leg. The shin contorted into an impossible angle, but more alarming was the large amount of dark fluid seeping through the fabric.

“Shit,” John swore, not wasting any time as he grabbed for the belt of Tenner’s jeans to open the buckle. “Help me get his jeans off. He has an open fracture and might hemorrhage if an artery was ruptured.”

Before pulling down the jeans, John yanked the belt through the loops and put it aside. Blood drummed in his ears in a thunderous storm while a fresh wave of adrenaline pumped through his body to function as the doctor he had suppressed for so long. With Sherlock’s help, he slid down the jeans, carefully tugging at the hem of the leg to not cause any more pain than necessary. Luckily, Tenner had passed out.

When the whole ghastly picture of the wound unveiled, John’s apprehension became obvious as the shinbone breached layers of skin and muscles with blood pouring from the fracture. Shooting a worried look at Sherlock, he met interest instead of nausea. “You okay with that?”

“I’ve seen worse.”

A chuckle shook through John, trying not to imagine what the man might be implying. He took Tenner’s leather belt and twined it around the man’s thigh, pulling it tight to slow the blood supply.

“You have a first aid kit in your car,” John shouted to the man who just finished the call for 999. “Bring it.”

The man rushed to the boot of his car, intimidated by John’s snarling command. From the corners of his eyes, John saw Sherlock’s with appreciation scintillating gaze while a slow smile blossomed into a full grin.

With the first aid kit, John could tend the wound better. After donning a pair of nitrile gloves, he ripped a pack sterile compresses open. Gingerly, he put the compresses onto the protruding whiteness of the bone. John noticed that the blood loss appeared not to be as profound as before. Deft hands bandaged the shin up, using the right amount of pressure to hopefully stop the bleeding before the man would arrive at the hospital.

The moment John finished administering first aid, they heard the sirens of the ambulance drawing closer. Blue flashing lights bounced along the street as it wound through the cars. After explaining the paramedics of what had happened and what John had already rendered, they thanked the doctor and took Tenner with them to the next hospital.

“He’ll pull through,” John said, listening to another pair of sirens, this time coming from the police.

“Lucky him that you were there.” Sherlock smiled, reminding him of a time where play-acting hadn’t been necessary. The warmth conveyed by the man’s smile pooled into a fuzzy feeling in his stomach.

***

After leaving their testimony to the police on the spot and a call to DI Donovan, they were released to hail a cab that would bring them to the hotel. While the taxi weaved its way through the thick traffic of the rush hour, John’s adrenaline level dropped and tension crept into his muscles. Psychosomatic limp aside, since Afghanistan he hadn’t engaged in sports which the softer flesh around his stomach bore witness. And now that his body came down from the high induced by the chase, his lung burned and his muscles screamed with an impending stiffness which would hit him before next morning.

Sherlock watched John fidgeting in the seat to relieve the pressure off his knee before the man leaned over, hot breath tickling in a now familiar huff against his ear. “I know exactly what you need.”

A smirk played at Sherlock’s lush lips, but John could just conjure a vague smile in response. The insinuation caused a faint stirring within John – the joy of solving the case accompanied by the warmth of Sherlock beside him. The man’s glowing excitement hadn’t fainted albeit he had unraveled the mystery of a murder-suicide. In the aftermath of the puzzle, Sherlock appeared more alive than ever. Although John felt the same, his body cheated him as his weary muscles didn’t share the gleeful anticipation.

When they finally stepped into the peaceful surroundings of the hotel suite John heaved a sigh, a mix of relief and frustration. “Sherlock, I…”

But Sherlock’s finger pressed against John’s soft lips, a wicked light coming into his eyes. The faint smell of the pungent cigarette smoke still lingered on the skin. He stopped John’s words as he reiterated with a promising emphasis, “As I said I know exactly what you need. You better get naked.” He winked at the proposal and left John standing in the hallway to head for the bathroom.

After shedding his jacket, John followed Sherlock’s freshly imprinted footprints on the thick carpet, reminded of the brilliant deductions in the early afternoon. Within earshot of Sherlock’s activities, he listened to the noises from the bathroom until water was turned on to run a bath. _Oh!_

Emerging from the bathroom, Sherlock tugged at his purple Henley shirt to pull it over his head. He revealed the beautiful expand of his creamy chest which caused John’s breath to hitch. Two mercurial eyes met John’s, glinting with the knowledge of catching John in an unashamed stare. “I told you to strip.”

John huffed a small laugh. His fingers wandered to the button border of his checked shirt and popped each button through the hole. It slowed down the process, not without intention though, as John realized that although he had seen Sherlock entirely naked last night, John himself was always partially clothed. Self-consciousness never belied the problem, but revealing his body as a whole betrayed also a vulnerable part, something that could always be hid under the many layers of clothes. This wasn’t about a scar or softer flesh around his middle, but exposing himself like this offered no opportunity to show a self-portrait through the clothes. _All that’s left is just me_.

Sherlock sensed his hesitation. After peeling off his tight jeans, he closed the gap to John, helping him with the rest of the buttons. When he freed them all from their tiny prisons Sherlock slid his hands under the cotton to push the shirt along with the fine gray cardigan in one swift motion off John’s shoulders. Cool air met John’s skin, prickling from the firm touch. Goose bumps undulated over his bared skin while Sherlock tugged at the ribbed undershirt to make a short shrift of the fabric, pulling it over John’s head and throwing it to the other clothing on the floor.

All the while, Sherlock’s chest moved in front of John’s eyes. He blinked at the memory of the musky taste, his mind becoming dizzy as an absent-minded hand roved over the firm planes. “You’re unbelievably hot.”

A shy gaze flickered over Sherlock’s features, conveying conflicting regret. “I’ve been told on several occasions.”

A grimace twisted with emotional pain crossed John’s face as he imagined the compliment made by other customers. Sherlock’s hand mimicked John’s caress, stroking over the solid planes of his chest down to where the back of his fingers brushed against laxer flesh as he hooked a digit behind the waistband to work on John’s belt. “I see,” John lowered his gaze to Sherlock’s hand, unable to meet those intense eyes piercing through him while John struggled to withhold the contempt for all the other clients.

“Don’t you fall prey to the delusion that _you_ chose me,” Sherlock said as if he could read John’s thoughts. “ _I_ choose my customers.” The smug grin returned, eyes sparkling with mischief as he added, “And _I_ chose _you_.”

Sherlock slid the leather of John’s belt through the buckle before freeing the fly. His fingers brushed along the zipper as he opened it. John watched the man, mesmerized. Sherlock’s pale blue receded for the dark of his pupils which betrayed his aroused state. He pushed John’s jeans and pants down, his gaze lingering on John’s flaccid cock. John shifted his weight under the scrutinizing eyes, mistaking Sherlock’s intention. “I’m sorry, I think I’m not in the mood today.”

Sherlock quirked an understanding eyebrow, a warm expression between comfort and feigned hurt softening his features. “Do you think I deduced you wrong when I said I know exactly what you need?”

Confusion crept over John’s face. His glance flicked to the half-hard erection hidden beneath those tight-fitting pants. “But you are…”

“Ignore it,” Sherlock shrugged dismissive shoulders. “I know you’re physically and emotionally wrung out. You have anything but sex in your head right now.”

_Emotionally?_ How did Sherlock suppose he was emotionally wrung out? The day had exhausted him on a physical level. _Yes, that’s right_. But emotionally? His bad leg shook from exertion that he was no longer accustomed to. _Of course_. His hip twinged with a fresh wave and unease settled in his mind as he recognized that Sherlock might be right. A psychosomatic limp shouldn’t ache so much if he wasn’t emotionally compromised. “But the day was great fun,” he whispered, not understanding why it would hurt so much.

“Yes,” Sherlock conceded. “ _Because_ you had fun.”

John’s eyes widened at the simple fact. Since he returned from Afghanistan, he hadn’t done anything that enjoyed and pained him likewise. Following Sherlock through the cobweb of London’s streets on the hunt for a suspect in a murder case, tracing leads and knitting them together showed him an adrenaline-fueled world he had missed so much. Although he relished every moment, every ragged breath burning in his lung after such long disuse, his subconscious mind realized the exception. For once, he could revert to the old times of being an army physician, being himself with no mask to put on. He was simply Dr. John H. Watson.

Sherlock took John’s hand, a ghost of a touch, waiting for permission. “Let’s have a bath. It’ll ease the tension off your shoulders.”

As in reply, John squeezed the fingers curling around his palm, letting himself be led to the bathroom. The sexual tension evaporated in John’s perception of what Sherlock had shown him today. He had misinterpreted the man’s purposes as his thoughts were once again biased toward the escort instead of the detective.

They settled into the bathtub with Sherlock at the wall and John wedged between his long legs, using the man’s torso as a backrest. A companionable silence stretched between them for a while. The only sounds came from the occasional splash of the surrounding water when they moved to dip further into the soothing warmth. “Have you ever considered doing the consulting detective full time?”

“Hmm?” Sherlock’s head had fallen back against the enamel rim, relaxed while he drew lazy circles on John’s upper arm.

“I mean you could work as a private detective to earn a living. Start a blog for example since you’re living an unusual life. Certainly people will be interested in it and might become future clients.”

Sherlock grunted a response with an edge of disdain before he lifted his head, his baritone filling the reverberation of the tiled bathroom. “Have you ever considered to give up your current life to become a doctor again?”

John knew that the counter question aimed at avoiding an answer, to distract John from pressing on. “Of course, I have,” he said truthfully, lifting his dominant hand and splaying his fingers in front of their faces. Droplets rolled from his wrist and fell into the water to echo in the room as John waited to prove his words. “I have an intermittent tremor caused by my PTSD. Every time when I’m under stress my hand starts to shake, and I lose control. There’s no way that I can work as a doctor like this.”

“Rubbish!” Sherlock frowned at the spread fingers, his own hand coming up to cup John’s underarm. “I’ve seen those tremors when you’ve flexed your hand in uncomfortable situations, but today you were perfectly calm. You tended Tenner’s wound, sparing no second thought. Your therapist has got it the wrong round. You’re not haunted by the war, John, you miss it.” His grip at John’s elbow tightened. “It’s the same hollow excuse you use to disguise your past.”

A momentary stillness overwhelmed John as he watched his placid fingers. Was Sherlock right? Did he really seek the army because he didn’t want to escape his father’s grip, but rather to satisfy his addiction to adrenaline-fueled danger? Even after becoming a doctor he could have worked at any hospital or surgery within Britain, ignoring his father’s demands. But instead he chose the battlefield over the mediocrity. And now, he had donned an armor made of exquisite threads to whitewash his true self – a disguise. “It’s not that easy,” he said, his voice tinted in regret.

“You’re bisexual but cover it with the excuse of your father’s _conservative_ education.”

The words melted into a thunderous rumble within the confined walls of the bathroom, albeit they were spoken softly with a hint of despair for John to finally see. John loosened the large hand from his elbow and twined it around his chest. The arm served as a brace for his hands gripping at the skin to nestle his chin into the crook of Sherlock’s arm. “Not anymore,” John whispered against the warm pulse beneath his face.

“And yet it still subsists.”

John heaved an emotional-laden sigh. “It’s not so easy to cast off my skin… to shed those memories.” Another silence spread between them. Sherlock, who had been impatient all day, sat unmoving now, waiting for John to sort his thoughts. “At age fifteen I realized that I was into blokes as well. Before, I had a crush or two on some girls from school, but in the tenth grade our class got an additional student. And I noticed my interest toward men for the first time. Funny and good-looking, everybody liked him, and soon he joined our rugby team. We become good friends; helped each other with prep, watched sport and went out with friends. It wasn’t like a spontaneous realization. After a while, I became aware I wasn’t just interested in our shared hobbies, but rather a physical attraction budded. And so I recognized with all certainty about my bisexuality.” He huffed a mirthless laugh. “This realization caused a major shift in our friendship for me because suddenly I wanted more, wanted to touch him, wanted to know how he felt under my caresses – an odd mix of curiosity and concern. But how should I initiate such notion when I didn’t know if he felt the same?” Again, John paused, his eyes looking unfocused on a distant past, waiting for an answer he had never received. “It never really came to that. We had a very… let’s say _apprehensive_ classroom teacher who assumed our friendship to be more in a time and place where society regarded such relationships to be disgusting. He informed my father about my _inclination_ although nothing ever happened. Of course, my father boiled with indignation since my sister came out one year prior to that incident. Lucky her, already eighteen she moved out as soon as possible.”

John’s gaze strayed over the glistening water surface as if it was a window into his terrible past. “What happened then?” Sherlock asked when John failed to continue.

“My father yelled at me, threatened me to kick me out of school as well as home if I do not _amend_ to my preferences. I was so frightened at his rage I actually believed he would do this. Being fifteen with no graduation and no home… what would have become of me? So I persuaded myself that I could relinquish my friend and, therefore, all men since women attracted me as well.” John shook his head at the misbelief of his younger self. “They hadn’t been idle in school, too, since the teacher also explained his concerns to my friend’s parents. So they took him from school. Of course, this didn’t go unobserved by others. My coach even threatened me to throw me out of the team if he would ever see me getting too close to any other teammates. Can you imagine –“ John snorted a derisive laugh, “– in a sport like rugby? Well, in those times, I decided to pick up girls as often as I could to distract all the others from thinking me being gay.”

“Your father’s dead now? Why do you still cling to the idea of hiding yourself?”

“Because I can’t stop what I’m doing. I can’t stop this business my father had established because I can’t revert to being a doctor due to this god damn tremor.”

“Bollocks,” Sherlock chided, his voice now terse with fretfulness. “Today I proved to you that your intermittent tremor doesn’t originate from your PTSD because you’ve been under fire since this afternoon and you completely turned calm, even at the sight of an accident. It’s your dull life as a businessman that troubles you.”

“And what do you suggest?” John angled his head to look at Sherlock, his brows arching expectantly for an honest reply. “Should I do a bungee jump every day to keep my adrenaline at a certain level?”

A small laugh rumbled in Sherlock’s chest, vibrating against John’s back. “It’d be a start.”

John burst into a giggle at the mental image. “And then?”

“Become a doctor again.”

They were silent for a while, but John’s grip tightened at Sherlock’s arm, his nails digging red crescents into the smooth skin. “It’s the ties, isn’t it?” John teased with a grim smile.

Sherlock hummed, “Nasty little stranglers, holding you in a world you despise.”

“Bloody _ties_!” John conceded with a nodded jerk while another fit of giggles bubbled up his throat. Exhilaration danced in his eyes at the dark sense of humor hiding behind a good-natured façade. “ _Ties_!” he reiterated, trying to make Sherlock see the innuendo of the cable tie that literally strangled the young woman. It wasn’t decent to laugh at such tragedy, but he couldn’t stop himself. The relief of finally talking with someone about his past, about his oppression and inhibitions took a load of his mind, leaving him in a state of vertigo. Where before emotional lethargy and a withdrawal into a life of lies had filled him, he now floated in a current of hope that Sherlock had invigorated.

Sherlock burst into a full laughter, the black comedy of his own recurring quip loosening the tension between them. Together they shook with their snickers so that the water splashed and sloshed over the rim of the bathtub. Sherlock’s humid breath puffed against John’s neck with the laugh, a soft breeze that caused his skin to ripple. He bathed in the sensation of such closeness and knots in John’s stomach loosened to free the painful sentiment of relinquishing this adventurous day to one of the farthest corners of his mind. No. He wouldn’t oppress it.

When their laughter subsided Sherlock leaned closer to his ear. “John? What do you want me to do today?”

Now that the tension faded, John’s body betrayed his weakness at the question as his cock twitched with interest. Yet, he willed himself to stop this train of thoughts. The exertion of the day made his legs tremble, psychosomatic limp notwithstanding, he was no longer used to chasing someone in the middle of a battlefield. Moreover, he didn’t want to be a physical wreck the next day as he had prepared a special plan. “Can we…” John struggled for the words since he knew about Sherlock’s mindset on sentiment. “Can’t we just sleep together?” He flinched at the ambiguity of the question and added, “I mean sleep like in laying side by side in a cuddling manner?”

Sherlock considered the proposal for a moment before his baritone rumbled gently against his ear, a velveteen veil draping over his body in beautiful comfort beyond the warmth of the water or even Sherlock’s body. “If you wish so.”

After half an hour, they finished their bath, and John padded into the bedroom where Sherlock already curled into a ball. But this time he didn’t confine himself to the far edge of the king-sized bed as he had shifted to the middle. Since the man was still facing the other side of the room John crawled under the duvet, dipping the mattress and feeling the bared skin of Sherlock’s arse. A wicked grin curved his lips at the promise of last night. He wore his pajama bottoms but refrained from a t-shirt as Sherlock had complained about too much warmth when they would sleep like this.

Outstretching his limbs, John tucked his knees into the pits of Sherlock’s knees. He pressed himself flush against the other man’s back, lithe muscles tensing under the caress. His arm snaked around Sherlock’s chest and loosened the huddled grip on his body. After a moment, Sherlock relaxed into the unfamiliar embrace, his breath becoming deep and even as John nuzzled at his nape. The softness of the curls brushed along the sensitive skin of his lips with ticklish sensation. His arm tightened imperceptibly in a protective manner. “What if I don’t want to let you go after the week?” The whisper slipped from his tongue without thinking, and Sherlock’s breath hitched, the rhythmic rising and falling stopped as if in a momentary paralysis. John scolded himself for being so careless. Somehow he had assumed that Sherlock was already asleep.

“Trust me, you will let me go.” Contrary to the brusque finality of Sherlock’s words, the man cupped John’s fist at his chest, pressing it against his thundering heart in the tenderest gesture.

The painful dichotomy raked through John’s body like thorny tendrils, ripped his flesh open and burned him. Yet, he couldn’t loosen the grip on the man.

The contrast hurt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At this point, I’d like to mention that although I studied economics for three semesters half a lifetime ago I actually have no idea about how economics work. All the facts and data in this fic is either based on “Pretty Woman” or my dubious knowledge about buyouts and loans. Thus, if you find any mistakes I’d appreciate if you could mention them in the comments so I hopefully can correct them.
> 
> If you want to catch up with me you’ll also find me on [Tumblr](http://nymeria578.tumblr.com/).


	5. Decision

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again I’m so sorry that this update took so long. I got the flu, the real one and couldn’t barely move for two weeks. But now I’m back again and hope to be able to post a new chapter by end of April. The story is nearly finished now with a total of over 86k words. I think by the end of the last chapter I’ll scratch once again at 100k words. 
> 
> As always a huge thanks goes to my wonderful beta [GhostTari](http://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostTari/pseuds/GhostTari) who, despite some wild running RL, provided her invaluable help. If you still find some mistakes I’ll take the blame.
> 
> And of course thanks for all the kudos and lovely comments! They’re making my day :)

John awoke to a soft tickling puff brushing against his cheek as if a slight breeze blew through a tilted window. Except that he couldn’t open any window on the thirty-seventh floor due to safety precautions. He screwed his eyes up, the lingering darkness in front of his closed lids revealing the early hour. A faint warmth mingled with the whiff, evaporating before it hit his skin. No. The warmth radiated from something else. _Someone else_ , he recognized as his consciousness caught up with the dreamy haze of sleep.

Blinking, John opened his eyes. Seconds ticked away before his cobalt blue receded for the black of his pupil, adjusting to the semi-darkness of the hotel suite. The drawn-out puffs were accompanied by deep rumbles in the chest of the man beside him, vibrating against his arm; no real snoring but rather a deep breathing. He turned his head to the origin of the breeze. The cotton of the bedclothes whispered at the movement while the smoothness of warm skin brushed against his crown. Sherlock’s arm snaked above his head. A faint smile blossomed into a full grin at the awareness that Sherlock hadn’t fled the closeness of John’s embrace last night. Instead, he stayed in the middle of the vast bed and even snuggled closer during the nocturnal hours.

As the darkness waned, and his surroundings took shape within the gray veil of the bedroom with its closed curtains, he spotted the creamy skin of Sherlock’s angular face. The tip of his nose nearly brushed against the man’s. Every sharp feature had slackened, faded compared to the recreation of his frantic energy, making him look impossibly young and vulnerable likewise.

John’s gaze roved over the chiseled face, loitering on those elegantly curved lines of lips. He savored the breathed air against his mouth, tongue rolling over his bottom lip to taste the almost-kiss. Yet, he withstood the urge to reach out and steal a caress he was forbidden to take. So his eyes slid shut again, focusing on his other senses. The cool breeze tickled once again his oversensitive skin as he focused on Sherlock’s unique scent, a delicious mix of the man’s very own fragrance and John’s expensive shower gel. A touch of pride and possessiveness overcame John at the thought as if he had left a mark on Sherlock. It was odd. He never experienced jealousy or possessiveness with Mary or any other girlfriend. However, the latter didn’t include the feeling of locking his lover away because the world, respectively any other man or woman wouldn’t have had the right to befriend with his partner. He didn’t want to own his partner. No. While visiting the crime scene and enjoying the detective’s work John became a part of Sherlock’s world. He wanted to show this specific world that he – John Watson – was also a part of Sherlock Holmes’ world.

The mattress dipped as John rolled onto his side, laying flush against Sherlock now. With still closed eyes, his dominant hand wandered to the sharp crest of Sherlock’s hip, the distinct contrast to the softer flank palpable under the trail of his fingers. His palm curled over the lithe side and he weighed the strength of now lax muscles as his hand glided to the firmer front. The smoothness under his fingertips astonished John again and again. Sherlock’s skin bore witness that he had neither worked too hard or saw too much sun like John’s own sunburnt hues disclosed. Even the man’s fingers showed no signs of labor. _So had he always worked in his profession?_

When his hip began to twinge at the position John bent his knee to ease some tension. He winced at stiff muscles that reminded him of an all too pleasant day. In fact, he had anticipated considerably more pain in his legs. Maybe he wasn’t too much out of shape in the end? A small snort escaped his lips, but he decided to engage more in sports again when he would return home in two days.

_Two days?_

A pang of fear constricted his throat as he swallowed around the lump. Yesterday had swept him along a sublime life he had neglected for a long time, memories so long locked away in the farthest part of his mind as to not remind himself of his longing. But now, the door to these memories had been opened like Pandora’s box – and all that remained was hope. He flexed his hand, waiting for the sting which caused the nervous twitch beneath the skin.

But it failed to appear. John sensed no urge to shake off the trembling sensation of his muscles. He was in complete control. Surprised at the absence of the expected response, his eyes fluttered open. More light invaded the room now since the gleam around the curtains announced daylight seeking its way into the darkness. He didn’t need to wait for the adjustment of his pupils as his incredulous stare lingered on his still hand. Neither an itch nor a twitch irritated him as it usually did. An incredulous laugh wavered in his throat, becoming a huff of disbelief that Sherlock’s deduction from last night proved once again to be correct.

His gaze shifted, attention drawn to a pair of mercurial eyes cutting through the twilight in the room to find Sherlock staring at him. “I thought you were sleeping,” John said, feeling caught out. He rolled on his back, unsure whether the intimacy was welcomed or not.

Sherlock studied John’s affronted features for a moment before grabbing John’s wrist. He dragged John back again, scrutinizing his calm fingers and trailing his thumb over each pad. “I don’t sleep much. The state resembles my withdrawing into my mind palace.”

“Your what?” John blushed as he realized that Sherlock had pulled him back into sort of an embrace.

“It’s a memory technique, a method of loci in which each item or memory is associated with a vivid image in a place I have created. To find a certain memory, I need to retrace the route, find the _locus_ and _observe_ the image.”

“A palace?” John asked, arching his brows at the implied vastness of a pompous building.

“Yes. I’m not some mediocre idiot like ninety-nine percent of the population.”

“Ouch,” John feigned hurt but knew the man better by now than to feel offended.

Sherlock’s piercing eyes bored into John. “Your mind might be placid, John, but you are not an idiot.”

Tentatively, John withdrew his hand, the touch becoming too much at the contrastive words. He disguised his uncertainty with a small huff of laugh. “Well, I should take that as a compliment then.”

Sherlock hummed noncommittally, his eyes shifting in an unfocused gaze as they drifted over John’s scar, exposed by the duvet ruffled down to his waist. “It’s such a traumatic reminder of your past,” Sherlock said absent-mindedly, a finger trailing the gnarled flesh, and John shivered at the ghost of a touch. “My mind palace conveys an equal gruesome memory.”

“Can’t you just close a door to a certain memory?”

Sherlock shook his head at John’s misinterpretation. “No, the mind palace itself is the memory.”

Now John was at a loss, a frown furling his brows in a question. “I don’t understand.”

“As a child my older brother urged me to use the technique to sort my never-ending chain of thoughts. But since he always forced his opinion on me I defied him in an act of reverse psychology. When I entered uni the cognitive disarray got worse. With so much new information, it became more and more difficult for me to focus on certain aspects since I couldn’t arrange my thoughts and my attention slipped. Especially the social factors. My classmates found me a weirdo and called me other unpleasant names.”

“They were certainly utter idiots,” John murmured, an inner turmoil and rage coiling in his stomach. To avoid his hand from flexing, defying this acquired habit, John interlaced Sherlock’s fingers. He appreciated the trust as Sherlock squeezed his hand in response. Yet, the gesture didn’t just convey trust but also a tiny glimpse into Sherlock’s past. _So he attended uni_.

“Unfortunately, not everyone on campus is interested in you gaining knowledge. There are even a few who are more interested in you suppressing knowledge by selling drugs. In the end, one of those people found me desperate in the need to still my vociferous mind, to mute all those voices in my head that constantly screamed my observations of the other idiotic students.”

“Without doubt, you got into a brawl or two,” John wanted it to sound light, but his voice failed as his heart leaped into his throat, choking him at the overwhelming emotions of contempt, dismay and sadness about the genius’ past.

A melancholy smile flitted over Sherlock’s face. “Yes, but I knew how to defend myself. The drugs were the real problem. They oppressed my mentation and dragged me down into lethargy. After a semester, I got kicked out of uni. I didn’t tell my family and lived on the streets, bought cocaine and fell into an emotional stupor.”

_Jesus_ , John thought, remembering how he had confided his own ordeal from his youth last night when such a deep wound had likewise bled into Sherlock’s life. The man provided a portrayal of restless energy, every sinew and every muscle proving a vivid mind full of excitement and vivacity. What a contrast it must have been in those days? To see the sparkling verve ceasing in those pale blue eyes, yielding for a hollow promise of silence. It hurt John.

“After a few weeks, my brother tracked me down which was to be expected. He always does.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “He had me committed into a drug rehabilitation clinic and when I was discharged he insisted on teaching me the methods of loci.”

“But you said, you’ve been clean since two years.” John estimated Sherlock to be in his mid-thirties. Surely, he wasn’t kicked out of uni at age thirty-three.

“It’s not so easy to completely get away from something which is as enticing as a blissful calm making you feel good instead of awkward or freaky. The mind palace helps me to sort my thoughts, keeps the flood of input at bay since I also learned to delete unimportant stuff. Still, there always remained a social element my brother has underestimated in me since he deems me to be like him.” Their intertwined hands rested on John’s chest, his heart thundering beneath the sternum at Sherlock’s insight. “But I’m not like him. Not at all. So I relapsed twice.”

John frowned, unsure whether he should like Sherlock’s older brother or not. Animated by the best intentions, the man pigeon-holed his younger brother without considering that Sherlock was different. “Does your brother know what you’re doing?”

A long silence stretched between them as Sherlock locked regretful eyes with John before averting them. “No, he thinks I’m working as a consulting detective which is the truth.”

_Lying by omission_. John kept that notion to himself, looking at those downcast long eyelashes, Sherlock’s silvery gaze suddenly shy of John’s searching eyes. He understood that although Sherlock was clean now for two years, without support by friends or family the man could relapse anytime. If Sherlock wouldn’t get the opportunity to use his intellect for the police, John didn’t want to imagine how he would end. A crushing urge to drag the man into a tight embrace overcame John. Instead, he pulled their interlaced hands up to his mouth, lips brushing against the marble-white skin as he murmured, “Sorry, I’ve been such an ignorant prat, lamenting about my problems when yours…”

“Don’t deem your problems less worthy than mine. Your father’s been an utter arse.” Sherlock’s annoyed voice cut like a razor-sharp blade, yet the exasperation wasn’t directed at John. “Stop apologizing for something you haven’t induced. Your father was a bigoted bastard who accused you of something which is just natural and forced you to suppress it. Your psychosomatic limp doesn’t solely originate from your traumatic experience of being shot but also from the fear of giving in to what you desire. So you rather hide away your true self under the disguise of a broken man who wears a mask of self-confidence in the public instead of overcoming that fear and finally become what _you_ wanted all your life.”

John swallowed, the blood rushing in hot waves through his body as it pressed into his ears to mute the world. Sherlock had spoken the words with rapid-fire and struck him into his inner core, awareness settling in as the truth unfolded.

“At least, I have a family that helped me, saved me whereas your father deceived you,” Sherlock emphasized, grimacing with reluctance. “Although it takes a while getting used to them.”

A blooming smile tugged at Sherlock’s lips, betraying the dichotomy of his feelings toward his family. His fingers disentangled from John’s grip. He pressed his palm flat against John’s chest as a buzzing sound from the nightstand tore them from the silence after laying bare their ghosts of the past.

Hesitant, John turned away from the touch, rolling over to have a look at his mobile. _Kitty?_ He groaned at the prospect of talking to her since it spelled trouble. To let his emotional-laden voice sound sharp with a hint of reproach for the disturbance he cleared his throat and wiped over the screen to take the call. “Yes?”

“Did I wake you?” Kitty’s question vibrated with excitement, not a bit concerned about waking John.

John sighed, shooting Sherlock’s curious eyes a side glance. “I’m up.”

“I had to call. I just got off the phone with Harold Dimmock. Get this. He wants to see you. Today.”

Fueled by a rush of adrenaline, John sat up, alarmed at the sudden turnaround. “Why?”

“He wouldn’t say. John…” She appealed to him with his first name, aiming for his sleep-deprived attention. “I think we got him. He’s in the tight corner and we got him.” Grim delight resonated with the words, but when John failed to become infected by her brimming glee she asked, “You there?”

John swallowed around the horror soaring in his throat, a hint of bile clinging to his tongue as he pulled a face of revulsion. Disdain aimed at the woman as well as at himself. “Give me an hour.”

“We’ll be there,” Kitty said, implying to come over to the Shangri-La. “Listen, if he’s really caving in, we’ll go from there down to Wilkes’ office. I want Dimmock to commit his stock to us this morning.”

Instead of answering, John rang off, his heart hammering with a rhythmic thunder in his throat before he regained his composure. _The deal might get put through today_. To attend at the polo match wouldn’t be necessary anymore let alone the presence of Sherlock. He could strike camp and head for home.

A surge of indefinable emotions choked him as he sensed a pair of glacial eyes staring at him. “Change of plan?” The deep baritone draped over his tired mind like a soothing balm, a reminder that he needn’t face the upcoming meeting alone.

John nodded, a vague smile trying to conceal his exhaustion. “Better get dressed. We’re having guests.”

While John trudged to the bathroom Sherlock got up, his hair tousled like a dark halo around his head. He pushed the duvet down his body, frowning. “And what should I wear?”

Since his suit was ruined two days ago he only possessed his private clothing which appeared to be inappropriate for such a meeting. John followed the mercurial gaze along the glorious nudity of Sherlock’s body that looked utterly debauched save that nothing had happened last night. An inexplicable twitch loosened John’s muscles as tension dropped and warmth flooded through him. “For all I care you could stay naked, but this might scare off our guests which would rather be counterproductive.”

Sherlock mimicked John’s mischievous smirk at the reply, very well aware where John’s eyes rested on. His eyes danced devilishly, “And your jealousy, Doctor?”

“All right. Wear at least one of your snug pants,” John said in a low rumble as Sherlock rounded the bed to close the gap between them. “Because _this_ –“ he stroked gently over Sherlock’s stiffening cock, “– is still mine.”

The remark betrayed his possessiveness, John understood, but it seemed to turn on the madman. Unfortunately, they didn’t have the time to indulge in their budding arousals. “So you want me to stay even when the deal’s over today?”

“How…?” But before John ended the sentence, he shook his head, smiling at himself that he still wasn’t used to Sherlock’s deductive skills.

“You said _guests_ which implies you’re not just receiving Ms. Riley or your broker. According to your weary expression, this will be an important meeting. The only logical assumption is that Dimmock Senior is surrendering and wants to see you.”

“You are correct,” John conceded. “As always, of course.”

“So what are you going to do?”

John took a step back, furrowing his brows at the ambiguity of Sherlock’s questions. Did he ask what John would do now with Dimmock Enterprises or what he would do with Sherlock after the deal? He decided for the latter. “I’ve booked you for a whole week, seven days. There are still two days left which I’d like to spend with you before I return to Glasgow.”

Sherlock looked at John for a moment, apparently weighing if he should head for the other question, but nodded in the end. John bit the inside of his cheeks, knowing that in the aftermath of the deal he would scarcely have time to indulge in Sherlock. And then, what would happen after those two days?

Unable to meet those piercing eyes in the fear of getting deduced to pieces, John turned to trudge into the bathroom, relieved that Sherlock didn’t follow. He showered and shaved automatically since his thoughts again and again reverted to the man in his bedroom. Did his question imply his aversion to staying longer than necessary? Had he hoped to get dismissed and still getting paid for the remaining two days?

_Maybe he wants to stay?_

John spat the toothpaste into the sink, hands propped on the enamel rim as he looked up into his reflection of the mirror. Cobalt blue eyes met his visual echo, searching for an answer he couldn’t give himself.

_Maybe he even likes you?_

Without doubt, John liked him. By now, this emotion even surpassed the gravity of sexual attraction to a rather romantic level. If they would have more time he might even fall in love. Oh fuck! Who was he fooling? He was already smitten with the madman like a teenager having a crush on someone.

_He’s even told you about his past. Why would he do this if he wouldn’t trust you?_

After rinsing his mouth, he looked up once again, lips pursed in determination – a decision made. Before he might change his mind, he darted for the bedroom, only to find it empty. He cursed under his breath. Of course, Sherlock used the guest toilet to refresh himself.

Still clinging to his decision and not allowing doubt to settle into his mind, John crossed the room to the walk-in closet to get dressed – a simple black three-piece suit with a white dress shirt and a dark gray waistcoat. He opened a flat drawer embedded into the closet, revealing his rolled-up ties. His hand hovered over several colors of silken fabric until it stopped over the shiny silver-gray piece of clothing that Sherlock had bought for him two days ago. He was supposed to wear the tie tomorrow at the polo match, which might happen to be redundant now so he could very well wear it now. As he walked out the closet he straightened the soft material, relishing the smoothness under his fingertips which reminded him of Sherlock’s flawless skin.

“You’re still up to get strangled?” An amused baritone filled the silence of the room.

Sherlock had slipped into his torn jeans and obscured the social stigma with the long silken dressing gown. John swallowed as he remembered the last time he had seen the shimmering blue fabric ruffling around Sherlock’s buttocks on the concert grand. A shy smile flitted over his lips before he averted his eyes to the clothing in his hand. “Yeah, it seems appropriate for today.” _To don the armor of the coldhearted businessman and still get reminded of a friendly gesture._ It belied yet another proof of his conflicting life.

“Here,” the man reached for the tie. “Let me.”

The vee of the dressing gown revealed the alabaster skin beneath the silken material. John watched mesmerized how the skin moved smoothly as Sherlock bound the beautiful gray tie with deft hands into a half-Windsor knot. The gesture betrayed the most intimate moment they had ever shared. He looked up to meet a coy smile. Returning the favor, John’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. When Sherlock tugged one last time at the tie and turned down the white collar, John’s hand came up, gripping his wrist to stop the ministrations. The smile gone, John pressed his lips to a thin line while his eyes sought something in Sherlock’s face he wasn’t able to deduce.

“Two more nights and you’re finally rid of me.” He gave in to the acid nagging sensation in his mind that Sherlock indeed might dislike being with him.

“Yes.” The curt answer wasn’t something John could work with. However, he needed to know, needed to ask.

“I must return to Glasgow the day after tomorrow,” he said, but Sherlock stayed silent, his eyes fixed on the perfectly bound knot. “But I predict I’ll be back in London soon when the deals over. We have to sell the property, and…” he shrugged his shoulder in implication for the unspoken. “Whatever.  Um… I thought we could work out something… An arrangement.” Again, Sherlock didn’t response, fueling John’s nervousness on the topic. “I’ll get you a flat…”

“I have a flat,” Sherlock interrupted, the baritone cutting through the room and emphasizing his independence.

“Erm… then buy you a car.” Sherlock scoffed, wriggling his hand free from John’s grip and pulling his dressing gown closed. Confused by Sherlock’s reluctance, John asked, “What is it?”

Cold sharp eyes snapped to John, a glacial stare the man had only preserved for people he disdained. “And then what? You going to leave some notes on my nightstand when you pass through town?”

“It wouldn’t be like that. I want to get you off the streets.”

“Off the streets,” he drawled, and John sensed the man’s exasperation beyond those words. “Now you sound like my dear brother to get me away from the drugs.”

“And if it is so?” John’s hackles rose, a yet unknown vexation at Sherlock making his stomach tighten in angry knots at the stubbornness. “Is it that bad if someone cares for you? You’ll have a different kind of life. What’s wrong with that?”

“Life’s not a fairy-tale, John.” Now it was John who scoffed, the reminiscence of a nightmare still too prominent in his mind when his left shoulder twinged under the scarred flesh now and then. “We all have our crosses to bear, but at least I’m independent and I’m proud of my autonomy. I understand that you want to help, and I know you mean it.”

With the rejection in Sherlock’s posture, John withdrew to the safer ground of a rather logical explanation. “I’ve thought about this a lot. This is the best solution.”

Angry pale blue shifted to a greenish hue as Sherlock averted his eyes, shoulders sagging. His lips parted as if he wanted to object once again, but took a deep breath instead. He shook his head, his freshly styled curls wafting with the motion like a dark cloud. “That’s not going to work, and I’ve told you that by the end of the week you will let me go, though it’s a real good offer for a whore.”

John cringed at the harsh wording. “I’ve never treated you like a whore.”

“You just did.” Defeat and hurt darted over Sherlock’s face, and John noticed his patronizing manner as he once again donned a role instead of being honest with himself and treat Sherlock like an equal partner. When did he become like that?

The sound of the doorbell interrupted their anguished silence laid bare between them with an unspoken truth of affection and denial. John tore his gaze from Sherlock and headed for the living room. The usually energetic man hesitantly trailed behind him, adjusting the sash around his waist.

_The stage is set_ , John glanced over his shoulder before opening the door to behold Sherlock waiting in front of the sofa. Except that the stage had changed, he recognized all of a sudden. Although Sherlock had been introduced to Dimmock as his PA his clothing now begged to differ, hinting at a far deeper relationship than just a business-related. And for the first time, John didn’t care. He watched Sherlock fidget with unease. Awareness hit him hard and pressed all the air from his lung that he had truly hurt the man.

John took a fortifying breath, determined to amend any damage later that day. Now was not the time. So he opened the door where a ghost of a man greeted him; a sturdy man he met at a business dinner barely three days ago. Harold Dimmock looked like he had aged ten years. Weathered lines had worried during the last days and left deep furrows, rendering the otherwise angular face with the defeated slackness of tiredness and exhaustion. “Mr. Watson,” he dipped his head, averting his brown eyes as if John’s lively gaze was too much to bear.

“How are you, Mr. Dimmock?” The question conveyed not only a courtesy, but sincere concern for his well-being.

“Not bad for a man who hasn’t slept in two nights.” A weary smile flitted over the man’s drained features. “I’ll get used to it.”

Two angry hazelnut eyes tore John’s attention toward Dimmock Junior who stood behind his father. He looked daggers at John and clenched his jaw as he put a supporting hand on his father’s shoulder. John stepped aside to let them in. Trailing in their wake, Kitty Riley brimmed with smugness at their victory and winked at John. Nausea churned his stomach, and he fought hard to disguise his revulsion.

To distract himself from the queasiness he closed the door and ushered the party through the hallway to the living room. One last look into the mirror above the dresser convinced him that his mask sat firmly in place.

“Mr. Holmes,” Dimmock greeted Sherlock, a bit puzzled about the man’s clothes.

“Mr. Dimmock,” Sherlock nodded before his eyes drifted to the son. “Harold.”

“Hello, Sherlock.” The younger Dimmock forced a weak smile onto his lips.

Jealousy flooded John’s mind at the apparent closeness between those two. It fogged his thinking, drawing him into a mix of resentment and possessiveness; both emotions not quite helpful at the moment.

“Let’s not waste time here, shall we?” Kitty broke the silence, impatient in her demeanor while her voice betrayed the hidden glee. Yet it didn’t slip John’s attention that a curious gaze lingered on Sherlock before she regained her composure. “Mr. Dimmock, you said this morning, you wished to speak with Mr. Watson.” Her hand gestured for John, brows arching in expectation. “Mr. Watson is now listening.”

“Yes,” Dimmock said, voice hoarse as he swallowed around the lump in his throat. “I'm here to tell you that I've reconsidered my position on your acquisition offer.”

“Expected… offer,” John corrected.

“Of course, yes.  After the expected filing period is over, I'm going to recommend to the board that we accept your bid.”

“You're making the right decision, sir.” A contrived smile flitted over John’s face to reveal his triumph. But after a second, it faltered when his eyes met Sherlock’s resigned gaze. The man didn’t even try to play-act the PA. His look conveyed neither pity nor empathy for the older Dimmock but rather his own failure to not make John see.

John couldn’t stand the mercurial stare, boring into him and taking him into pieces. A stubborn obstinacy surged up in his mind like a child defying his parents just for the sake of defiance. The emotion dragged him into a vortex of isolation while self-loathing pressed on his chest.

Kitty glanced from across the table to John, victory dancing in her eyes. Yet, she was surprised to not find the same delight in John’s face. He stayed silent, unmoved by her cheerfulness as he glared at her on her tactlessness.

“I'll see you on one condition,” Dimmock interjected the charged reticence, apparently mistaking John’s quietness as second thoughts. “I'm not so concerned for me but the people who have worked for me...”

“They'll be taken care of.  Won't they, John?” Kitty answered quickly, appealing to his first name once again in a patronizing fashion to meddle in John’s business. Nostrils flaring, her involvement earned her a sharp repellent glare from John since he knew that she was lying. The pension funds from Dimmock’s employees were already her target as well as Sebastian Wilkes’.

Dimmock’s gaze flicked to John, ignoring Kitty as he waited for an answer by the man who would be responsible for his employees in the future. John jerked his head once in an affirmative nod that conveyed an honest promise – an honorable handshake. “I'll sign anything you want then,” Dimmock sighed eventually.

“Today,” Kitty urged.

“Today,” Dimmock echoed, his voice a whisper.

John’s eyes drifted from the broken man to Sherlock, a nervous flutter in his stomach spreading his unease about the detective seeing him like this; observing John’s compassion for the businessman that struggled with the remorseless cruelty of concluding the deal to snatch his company. He couldn’t bear it. “We'll continue this down at the office.”

While the party left the suite to wait at the elevator John turned to Sherlock who had bid his goodbye to everyone since he knew he wasn’t welcomed. He hadn’t moved from his spot in front of the sofa, hands clasping behind his back.

John’s eyes lingered on Sherlock, hesitant to depart with Sherlock keeping a straight face – a mask of utter indifference. He waited for the otherwise restless man to move, a shift or a step – _something_ – just to refrain him from his dismissive stance with the viselike grip of his hands at the small of his back. But Sherlock stayed still, didn’t say a word, not interjecting as John so heartily wished. The man’s expression remained unreadable. His eyes, unflinching, stared back at John. But what did he expect from Sherlock?

When he couldn’t bear the silence anymore John took a shaky breath, realizing that he had to make a decision – _he_ , not Sherlock. As in a mute reply, he nodded once his understanding, and at this Sherlock’s gaze softened with a quiet sigh.

“I’m sorry,” John began, uncertain if he was apologizing for their disagreement earlier or for what he would inflict on Sherlock by leaving him now; probably a bit of both. “This will take a while, so you need to pick up the suit from the tailor alone.”

“That’s all right,” Sherlock’s cutting voice had returned to a gentle rumble in his throat, yet there remained a tad of distance between both of them.

Fidgeting on the spot with nervous tension, John explained, “I want you to be ready at seven sharp. Meet me at the bar in the foyer.”

“For what?” Sherlock asked, furling his brows to fuel a small triumph in John that for once he experienced the man clueless.

“Can’t you deduce it?” He teased with a wink, unclasping Sherlock’s tight grip to leave a kiss onto white knuckles before departing.

***

John stood at the window of a large conference room adjacent to Sebastian Wilkes’ office. The day reflected his somber mood with its overcast sky while a gray veil of a fine drizzle draped over London. With his hands clasped behind his back, John mirrored Sherlock’s muted demeanor. He knew the man accused him of playing a role, of donning a lie as a self-preservation. For Sherlock, it was easy to shed a persona, a feeling so contagious and tempting. Still, the fear remained, blinding him in the daunting darkness of his own nightmares. After being injured in war, what would he be without his father’s company? A man living in a bedsit with only his small pension. Would the exhilaration that Sherlock had injected into his mind, his every nerves still last even though the man would leave him, return to his own life on the streets?

He was ripped from his contemplations when Sebastian’s PA entered the room with a pile of papers under her arms. “Congratulations, sir.” The young woman smiled at John as she began to lay out the papers on the conference table.

John tore his gaze from the rain sprinkled glass, eyes unfocused as he tried to grasp the meaning of her words. “What?”

“Mr. Dimmock is just getting off the phone with his stock broker. It's finished.  You've won.” Her smile brightened up, revealing a white line of perfectly shaped teeth. A pair of sapphire-blue eyes locked with him in expectation to receive an equal smile from him, but John said nothing, his face a gloomy mask. The stale taste in his mouth spoke of no victory. Confused about his silence, she went on to veneer her budding uncertainty. “Who are you going after next, sir?”

The words sounded hollow in his mind. He hadn’t mulled over what would happen when the deal was over. Since he met Sherlock the brilliant man had defined his every day, his every thought. He frowned at the notion, reverting him back again to the rumination of what would he do when Sherlock was gone. “Who… indeed.”

The door opened again and Kitty, Sebastian as well as Dimmock and his son poured into the room. They surrounded the conference table while John waited at the front, his nails digging angry red crescents into his palms behind his back as he beheld the tired pale face of Dimmock. Nausea tightened John’s stomach into knots and bile rose in his throat, forcing him to take a deep breath. He had known it all along that legally he did nothing wrong, but regarding the buyout morally he felt like a thief. He was stealing the man’s company, and despite Kitty’s concession they would strip those pension funds off the employees, ignoring the humans behind those names on the lists.

Dimmock took a seat in front of the papers laid out on the table. His son stood behind him, his expression contorted into a grim mask of abhorrence. Kitty leaned over the table as she produced a biro and clicked it with a sharp tap onto the wooden surface. “If we can get these letters of intent out of the way now...” she said once Sebastian’s PA left the room, handing the pen over to Dimmock. “Mr. Watson and I would like to ask you some questions about your company.”

Harold Dimmock Junior, who had withheld his temper until this moment, brought himself into the scene as he spoke up, his voice full of contempt. “Dad, excuse me, but that's inappropriate.  You're under no obligation to answer any questions at all.”

The older businessman ducked his head defeated. “Could we at least wait till after the filing period?”

Kitty shot John a barely hidden glance of annoyance, begging for help with the sentimental outburst of the older man. But again, John stayed silent, clenching his jaw while an inner rage stormed in his chest, knowing that the man’s sudden fragility was his fault. For God’s sake, he was once a doctor meant to save lives and not to destroy them. Tendrils of discord coiled in his stomach, twisting its razor-sharp thorns into his guts.

When he failed to answer Sebastian plunged ahead, “Mr. Watson is preparing a bid based on our speculation of the corporation's net worth.  The price he ultimately pays for your father's stock will be based on that bid.  The more we know, the higher our bid can be.”

Dimmock patted a reassuring hand on his son’s hand which rested on the older man’s shoulder. “It's in my best interest to cooperate, Harold.”

The younger Dimmock gritted his teeth, “If he throws himself on your sword, you promise to take care of him and his family, huh?”

He glared at Sebastian who gave himself airs, “That’s unfair.”

“You bet it is,” Dimmock Junior snarled before he turned to John, wrinkling his nose in disgust. “You're everything he said you were.” He withdrew his hand from his father’s grip. “Do what you have to do, Dad. Just don't expect me to watch it.”

He shook his head once again before huffing off the conference room. A resigned smile crossed Dimmock’s lips as he looked at John. “He's young.  He hasn't learned how to lose gracefully yet.  I'll sign your papers.  And I'll answer your questions.  Whatever you want.”

Heaving a sigh, he finally took the pen from Kitty.

_Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong._

John’s inner turmoil screamed the answer he was seeking all the time. An answer, Sherlock placed right in front of him this morning. The moment he talked about his mind palace he confided a vulnerable side of his self as he explained how difficult it was for him to fit into a world he couldn’t correspond with. A world that treated him like a freak because of his brilliant mind. It had dragged him down into dark waters, made him believe his incapability to match with the social world so to mute his brain with drugs. Although he had listened to Sherlock’s heartbreaking past he didn’t fully understand the meaning of how their experiences overlapped. Until now. Yet, a vast abyss gaped between them since Sherlock had ventured a step to overcome his fears so many years ago. He fought his way back to the world that looked down at him for being different, bidding defiance to the temptation of muting his beautiful mind to dare the world while John hid his true self.

_I’m a bloody coward._

And then, the momentary paralysis that clawed at him dissolved into an awareness of why Sherlock had urged him to _see_ all the time. He observed in John a mirror image of his own deprivations, and knowing that he overcame social boundaries to save his life he wanted to show it to John as well. That was Sherlock’s unspoken response.

“Stop. For just a moment,” he intervened as Dimmock set the pen onto the paper to sign. “Mr. Dimmock, I'd like to ask you a few questions before you sign. You realize that you're a target. If you weren't mine, you'd be someone else’s, correct?”

Dimmock frowned at the question, not grasping the meaning beyond the words. “Yes.”

“If you had a...” John folded his arms in front of his chest, one hand tapping pensively at his lips as he searched for a solution to the whole debacle. “Let’s say… a reprieve, what would you do?”

Huffing a taut laugh at his employer’s change of mind, Sebastian’s eyes flicked between John and Dimmock. “I don’t think there’s any sense in –“

But John silenced the broker as he snapped at the man’s smug smile, “Let him answer.” Never would he allow anybody ever again to cut him short, especially not when his own money was involved. His nostrils flared with rage as he looked how Sebastian’s expression slipped, satisfaction easing the tight grip off his chest before nodding to Dimmock in reassurance to go on.

“I... I would take advantage of it.”

“How?”

The businessman looked lost, a deep furrow furling his brows as he groped for an answer. “I... I don't know.  There... there wasn't time...”

“I suppose you'd find out soon enough that you have assets you presently don't seem aware of, wouldn't you?” A small smile tugged at the corners of John’s mouth as he remembered a passage of the contract he read the day he met Sherlock. But Dimmock shook his head, not grasping John’s hint. “The waste processing licenses at that abandoned shipyard of yours, you'd certainly find out about that.”

A petrifying stillness seized the people in the room. John’s words created a sphere of epiphany on Dimmock’s side while shocked surprise flared in Kitty’s eyes. His lawyer had assumed that John hadn’t paid enough attention as to remember this little but crucial detail of the contract. “Oh, my God...” she breathed. “John, no!”

But he ignored her blasphemous outburst, his eyes never losing contact with Dimmock. “I suppose you'd use them as collateral on new loans, wouldn't you?”

“Have you lost your mind?” Sebastian hissed, grabbing John hard by the left shoulder to whirl him around. Pain seeped through the usual numbness of his wound while John contained himself on time than to grab for the hand, contort it in a viselike grip, and reach for the man’s throat – a dark reminiscence of war.

“Quiet!” Dimmock’s voice boomed in the conference room, a sudden vigor returning to the man as he glared at the broker. His eyes danced with freshly inflamed enthusiasm while the pallor faded for a healthier pink before he addressed John. “Would I get the loans?”

“This time I imagine you would, yes.” John nodded and for one last time he donned another role, yet this time in a comedic play, mocking his lawyer and broker as he feigned a deep rumination. “Hmm…” he unfolded his arms, digging his hands into his trouser pockets, rocking back on his heels. “With all this in mind, Mr. Dimmock, I can't logically make a formal bid on your company, can I?”

A smile grew on Dimmock’s face as comprehension settled in. “You'd be initiating a financial battle you'd ultimately lose, Mr. Watson.”

“You're very right.” John pursed his lips to hide his own budding smirk. “I think the best thing we could all do is go home.”

“What?!” Kitty and Sebastian asked in unison, incredulous at the scenario disclosed to them.

John shrugged his shoulders. No matter how dumbfounded or angry his employees were, he realized, he didn’t care. All this time, he had believed that he couldn’t stop doing this business due to his own employees. But in the end, their greed repulsed him more than to commiserate with them.

“Have a good day, gentlemen,” a smug smile stretched his lips as he bid his goodbye, and for the first time his grin wasn’t hypocritical. And damn, it felt good! “Kitty,” he tipped his head, gleefully enjoying her flabbergasted look.

The moment the door clicked shut, John stood in the long corridor of the huge business premises of the stock exchange with a weight off his mind. His emotions swirled in a turmoil of relief and a lingering part of fear. He couldn’t just shed this fear from one moment to the next. For too long, it had been a constant in his life. After Afghanistan he didn’t know what to do; what a broken man like him could become in a society where _broken_ was considered to be a weakness. Even though his cane became redundant he acknowledged he still needed support to overcome his fears and cast off those nasty habits dictated by his shadowed nightmares. John understood it would take time to get used to this new life. A life he hoped would become the life again of before those nightmares. But for now, it felt too good as he nearly floated through the corridor, ignoring the busy passersby chasing after the next business, the next deal. _Who… indeed?_

“Mr. Watson,” John heard the drawl of Sebastian Wilkes behind him as he waited for the lift. Before turning around to face the man who certainly lost an adequate amount of money today, he took a fortifying breath.

Sebastian’s eyes flashed with a spark full of loathing, betraying the man’s true face. “Mr. Wilkes?”

The fake smiles all but gone, the broker sneered, “What the fuck is going on?”

Again, John shrugged his shoulders, indifference seeping through every pore. “I considered this buyout too fraught with risk.”

“Bollocks,” the sneer whipped off his face as his expression contorted into a mask of rage. “This has something to do with that bloody whore.”

John’s jovial mood slipped at the insult against Sherlock. His eyes darkened and his body tensed in a way he was used to the battlefield of war. He realized that the slightest lapse would suffice now to let him snap and turn him into the soldier.

“Who told you?” John pressed through gritted teeth albeit at the same time awareness struck him. Kitty was the only one to whom he had told the truth about Sherlock.

Mimicking John’s indifference, Sebastian shrugged his shoulders and jutted his chin forward. “So you fuck a bloke who’s probably working for Dimmock and then you withdraw your offer.”

“You’re treading on thin ice right now, Mr. Wilkes.” John broadened his shoulders to appear taller, his stance menacing as he leaned into the broker’s personal space. His hands gripped the insides of his trouser pockets to control himself instead of lunging out and punching the smugness off the man’s face.

Sebastian recognized that John didn’t make an idle threat and took one step back. “For fuck’s sake,” he hissed, lowering his voice as a woman scurried past them under her arm a pile of folders. “I’ve invested a lot of money into the deal.”

“You knew the risk,” John informed the broker in a matter-of-fact tone. Both men glared at each other for a moment before the lift chimed, announcing the arrival of the cage. Without another word, John stepped into the cage. As the doors slid shut he glimpsed once again through the slit Sebastian clenching his fists at his sides, boiling with rage.

When he stepped out of the building brisk air engulfed him, soaking through his coat to invigorate his numb body. The drizzle had stopped, but a wet scent of grass and stone lingered in the streets. Since he had experienced the hot and humid air of Afghanistan with running months of no rain, he came to appreciate such weather. It wouldn’t mar his blissful mood.

He crossed the pavement for the curb to hail a cab, suddenly realizing the lack of pain; neither twinge nor cramp twisted in his leg to stiffen the knee joint or waist. Amazed at the wondrous healing, John looked down his body, bending his leg to feel the boundaries. But there were none. He could move his leg with no painful restrictions. Tears stung in his eyes as he huffed an incredulous laugh at the revelation since he had never believed to get rid of this subtle ache which had reminded him too often about his body’s confinement.

The taxi stopped at the curb, a small puddle sending splatters over the edge of the stone, but John dodged them easily. With the cabbie looking at him in expectation, John shoved the wonder of his limp aside. There was still time until seven o’clock, so he decided to buy a present before.

***

Twilight rolled over the city when John returned from his stroll along the Thames. He was richer by one small box clasped in his dominant hand. A discreet purple gift wrap hid the content from curious eyes.

John crossed the foyer swarming with guests at this hour. He greeted Mr. Stamford from the distance with a nod, and the hotel manager’s eyes pointed to the corridor leading to the bar in an unspoken answer. A pink shade painted John’s ears at the involvement of the affable Mr. Stamford, but he was also grateful to have found a sincere person in this business.

The bar surrounded a dim ambient light, its chairs empty besides one. The back of the slender frame faced the entrance, perfectly flattering the new bespoke suit. Sherlock didn’t see John coming closer since the man focused on his mobile. Excitement fluttered in John’s stomach in anticipation of running his fingers over the smooth fabric and lowering his face to Sherlock’s ear to nuzzle the delicious mix of fragrances – this time without the barrier of a role.

But the moment of surprise was interrupted by the bartender, shooting John a greeting smile. Sherlock looked up from his phone and turned around. Those ethereal eyes pierced through John. Would he see the change? But before he could fathom an answer, the stunning overall picture Sherlock portrayed distracted John. The purple dress shirt clung to his chest, the black suit jacket accentuating the lithe body with the English cut. Sherlock slid from the bar chair, buttoning up his jacket to let John take in every detail.

“Hello,” John swallowed since too much saliva gathered in his mouth. “And wow. That suit fits like a second skin.”

Closing the gap between them, Sherlock roved his gaze over John while a slow smile curved his lips. “You have a present.”

Of course, to unfold his deduction he used a statement, not a question. _Git_. But John couldn’t be deterred, inwardly crowing over the fact that Sherlock might have deduced the present was for him, but his curious glances disclosed his inability to gather what concealed the gift wrap. _If you’d just know_. John gloated at Sherlock, eyes dancing with glee. “It’s for you.” He didn’t even try to mask his bad play-acting. But when Sherlock reached for the small box, John withdrew his hand, a devilish grin crossing his face. “First you have to guess what’s in it.”

“I don’t _guess_ ,” Sherlock scoffed.

“Well, then _deduce_.” With this, John tossed the package to Sherlock, the size merely larger than the man’s hand.

Sherlock’s brows furrowed as he weighed the box in his palm. “I rarely get presents,” he mumbled, a sudden uncertainty flickering over his face as if the words betrayed an excuse of not knowing the content.

But John didn’t relent. “You can open it once you deduce it. But if you’re wrong you’ll do as I say for tonight.”

This was about trust, John understood, when Sherlock’s eyes snapped up. “And if I’m right?”

“I’ll do as you say.” John would never have come up with such a proposal if he wouldn’t trust in Sherlock. And when he saw the spark flashing in the man’s eye at the little game he knew that Sherlock trusted him as well.

The man weighed the box once again in his palm, running his fingers over the smooth gift wrap. It was thick and expensive. John had tossed him the present, so its content wasn’t brittle. He lifted the package up to his eyes for closer examination, looking for any tear that might help, even sniffed at it. Amidst the investigation, his gaze met John frolicking with small crinkles dancing around his eyes. He held the present at his ear and shook it carefully, but no sound emerged from within. Annoyed at the lack of clues, Sherlock huffed, “I hope it’s not a car key.”

For a moment, the velvety baritone took John back to their little disagreement in the morning; a sour reminder of Sherlock’s too soon departure. His grin ceased as he pushed the dark thoughts aside for now. “You want to open it?”

“How am I supposed to deduce what’s in there when you haven’t left any clues?”

“So you’re going to open it?”

“I’m no bloody psychic. Your game was meant to make me lose.”

“You’re a lousy loser,” John said, his smile returning.

Sherlock sneered at the remark and shook the present one last time before giving up to rip the wrap open. A black box hid under the thick paper, and when Sherlock lifted the lid his brows couldn’t decide between both shooting up or knitting together. “You cheated,” he said with an edge of amused reproach. “You made it heavier by adding weight.”

John chuckled at Sherlock’s chagrin, “I just increased the difficulty level for the consulting detective.”

“For a _tie_?”

“A black tie,” John corrected.

“Should I know something?” Sherlock quirked an eyebrow, the question filled with ambiguity.

Throwing the insinuation aside, John cleared his voice. “I want you to wear it.”

Sherlock took the small clothing from the box, the fabric rustling softly as it glided through his fingers. He held the silken material taut between his hands, thumbs running over the smoothness as if in a tender caress. “I don’t wear ties.”

“Certainly you know better ways than to tie them around your neck,” John’s eyes sparkled with mischief, and Sherlock puffed up to retort. But John resumed before another innuendo would change his plans for tonight. “Where we’re going now is a dress code that requires a tie for gentlemen.”

Sherlock drawled, rolling his eyes. “A dress code?”

“Trust me, you will like it.” John took the fabric from Sherlock’s hands and slid it around the man’s neck. His fingers buttoned the two topmost buttons up while Sherlock pulled a face. “And besides, it’s rather cold there, so an extra layer of clothing isn’t actually a bad idea.”

Sherlock ducked his face, his breath tickling John’s cheek. “Are you trying to patronize me, captain?”

The question reverberated in John’s inner core, the baritone so close that the deep rumbling sent molten blood through his veins and a shiver ran down his spine. “Um…” As much the sultry voice tempted John he reconsidered the meaning, suddenly afraid he might indeed patronize the man.

But when he looked up amusement gleamed in Sherlock’s eyes. “I might make an exception.”

John’s cheeks flushed at the implicit compliment. He finished the knot by tugging it gently into the middle of the purple dress shirt’s collar. “I bought yet another present,” John mumbled, a bit self-conscious since he knew Sherlock’s demeanor about gifts. “I left it on the table at the entrance because you might have won the game if you’d have seen it firsthand.” They meandered around the tables to reach the entrance where rich wool draped over burnished wood. “That’s a Milford Coat to keep the cold at bay.”

Sherlock brushed his fingers over the thick black wool, the texture soft and velvety before he swung the Belstaff around his shoulders, shrugging into its warmth. He hummed in approval. “Where are you going to take me?”

Instead of an answer, John just smiled, grabbing his black leather briefcase and guiding the man out of the room with a hand on the small of his back. John had ordered a cab for their twenty-minute ride, yet he kept silent about their destination, delighted over Sherlock’s cluelessness.

“So you’ve made a decision,” Sherlock broke the silence as he gazed at the busy streets of London, red double-deck buses passing by among the illuminated grayness of the lively metropolis.

John clutched his briefcase closer. “Yes, I did.”

“Your ambitious lawyer must be devastated.” A wry smile crossed John’s lips. Of course, Sherlock knew about his decision the moment he saw him at the bar.

“Not just her,” John replied, remembering the harsh encounter with the true ego of Sebastian Wilkes. Hot anger still boiled in his stomach at the derogatory remark about Sherlock. “Well, _devastated_ might not just be the case.” John chuckled, a dark glee echoing in the words, “ _Outraged_ would fit better.”

Sherlock’s gaze lingered on John for a moment before venting his concern. “You okay?”

John’s weathered lines softened at the question, the cobalt blue of his eyes turning into a warm ocean full of appreciation while the dry sarcasm faded from his expression. “I never felt better,” he conceded amazed as he looked at Sherlock. The man could be aloof and arrogant, deeming an apology or gratefulness a weakness as well as sentiment, and yet he sat there with John in the semi-darkness of a cab interested in his customer’s well-being. “You were right. I’m tired of playing a role. If I don’t pull the plug now I’ll probably never do it. I might never get out of this.”

The sudden image of his Sig caused John’s eyes to drop into his lap, averting the curious glances of Sherlock, afraid the man might see the blurry vision of his gun in the drawer of his bedsit. John had regarded the weapon as a defender and a savior, the dichotomy always in the forefront of his mind, a secret never shared with anybody. To become the head of his father’s company wasn’t exactly what he wished for life, but somehow it had saved him, gave him a chance to get out of his miserable life after Afghanistan. Yet, he had jumped out of the frying pan into the fire. It burnt him, caused his inner walls to raise and isolate him once again.

The taxi tore John from his somber contemplation as the car turned right into St. James’s Square. An orange and white glow amidst the small park caught his attention, and John leaned forward to the glass that separated the passengers from the driver. “Can you stop here, please?”

The cabbie glanced over his shoulder. “But it’s still another two hundred meters.”

“We walk from here,” John said, already shoving several notes through the window, generous with the tip so the cabbie pulled over at the curb where he ignored the no stopping sign.

Once they stood on the pavement Sherlock pulled the collar of his coat up, following John’s gaze to the glow within the greened square melting with a soaring cloud of smoke. Light from beneath let shadows dance in the treetops and sent forth an uncanny veil over the street. The surreal picture was accompanied by crackles and rustles in the wind as well as cheers from a crowd that had gathered in the middle of the square.

“Remember, remember,” John whispered, absent-minded.

Sherlock hummed affirmatively. “Yet, it’s not the place where you wanted us in the first place.”

Clasping his briefcase once again, his dominant hand cupped Sherlock by the elbow, a gentle tug implying him to cross the street. “There’s something I have to do.”

They entered the small park, the light becoming brighter with each step to the center where the wooden effigy of Guy Fawkes faced its fatal end. Fire split the wood, crinkling the hay inside of his consuming frame. A throng of people had assembled around the heat, their eyes aglow like the bonfire itself.

Determined, John threaded his way through the people. This was the perfect end for a life that had equally consumed him like this inferno did with the wood, hindered him to breathe as the flames licked up his body and forced him into motionless silence. Only charred-black emptiness had remained…

Until the day he met Sherlock.

The heat from the effigy beaded a slight sheen of sweat on his brows. A hushed murmur of worry went through the crowd at John’s immediate proximity to the fire. His momentary petrification at the overwhelming emotions was interrupted by Sherlock’s encouraging hand on his left shoulder. John had held his breath, but the man’s touch drew him back from the hollow emptiness. Two mercurial eyes flickered with sparks from the bonfire, highlighting the same devouring passion the fire laid bare to them.

John nodded once, his tightly pressed lips curving into a smile to relieve the tension. He would be forever grateful that Sherlock stayed with him, helped him with this step to overcome the last barrier of an old life. His hand reached into the briefcase to produce the contract that would have destroyed a man’s life; not just the life of Harold Dimmock but also his own. So it was reasonable to destroy the contract instead of two lives.

He stepped out of Sherlock’s warm caress into the blazing heat of the flames reaching to annihilate whatever came into their vicinity. And without a second thought, John threw the document into the ardent zeal of consumption.

Paper rippled within the inferno. Black ash whirled up, danced above their heads as it vanished into the darkness of the night. With it dissipated a future he had decided not to be his own. The unknown didn’t frighten him anymore. Quite the opposite was the case. He embraced it, accepting the tingling sensation of spontaneous choices.

His smile blossomed into a full elation of anticipation. “Let’s go,” he said, sliding his hand into Sherlock’s, interlacing their fingers as he guided him toward the exit of the park. Before realizing what he did, he acknowledged that he didn’t care what others might be thinking about them. His last role had evaporated into thin air, and all that remained was an army doctor with neither pain in his leg nor an intermittent tremor in his left hand.

Sherlock followed the silent guide of squeezing fingers around his palm. They switched back to their companionable peace, forgotten the discrepancies of the last two days. This time, John set the pace and Sherlock trailed in his wake until the man beheld to where John directed him. “Really, John? A church?”

“St. James’s church to be precise,” John drawled with mirth, barely hiding his chuckle.

“I haven’t considered you to be religious.”

“With that father of mine –,” John mocked, “ – never.”

Sherlock’s eyes flashed a moment of ignorance, and John smirked that he had indeed accomplished to surprise the man. “Then why are we going to visit a church?” A brow raised with the insinuation that Sherlock might deem himself to be out of place.

“We’re not going to visit the church as an institution but as a building.” An enigmatic smile broadened John’s grin as he got Sherlock’s attention.

A cluster of people trudged through the oaken entrance door to scatter into the nave. Some of them took their seats on the wooden benches covered with velvety cushions while others raised their faces to marvel at the astonishing golden-white barrel vault of the Anglican church. Save the dimmed light from the lamps attached to the benches the interior lay in shadows. Only the altar was enlightened in a dark violet betraying the contours of a concert grand and several chairs aligned in front of the beautifully carved reredos.

“A concert,” Sherlock hummed his appreciation since he finally knew why they were visiting a church.

“Nothing outperforms the acoustic of a church,” John conceded and turned to the right for the stairs that led them up to the gallery. “They hold regular concerts here. Tonight’s program is a classical mix of Mozart and Bach.”

Although John had learned to play the piano and the clarinet he never considered himself to be gifted in music. He knew the notes and could distinguish the different paces, but his heart played another rhythm whereas his mind dictated the notes. Yet, once in a while he enjoyed the dance of his fingers over a piano’s black and white keys even though it sounded somewhat passionless. Nowadays, he counted himself rather among an audience than to the musicians. He was no expert, though, only the great classical names of composers lingered in his mind, not the symphonies or operas itself. Still, he relished the melodic interaction of traditional instruments as well as the modern day music.

They walked to the front of the gallery where two vacant seats awaited their ticket holders. Due to small heaters nearby the benches, they shrugged off their coats and draped them over their knees. John couldn’t help, but look surreptitiously at Sherlock in his black suit with the purple dress shirt; not to mention the matching black tie. Both men wore the gifts bestowed by the other, and a pleasant warmth pooled into his lower abdomen.

“Thank you,” the two very unexpected words, ripped John from his thoughts, brows shooting up in astonishment at the man’s declaration.

“Should I feel honored?” he asked, a delightful undertone taking the edge from the question.

“You were right. I like it.”

A vague melancholy pressed on John’s heart at the concession. “Anytime.”

Sherlock leaned forward since they fell into their intimate silence. John, following suit, braced his elbows on the wooden railing. Downstairs, people scurried to their seats and read the leaflet of tonight’s program while the musicians placed themselves in front of the reredos. Sherlock’s voice sounded hushed almost like an emotional-laden whisper that threatened to break any moment, “There are two kinds of people here tonight.” John dragged his eyes from the crowd to the scrutinizing gaze of the detective; not the escort albeit right now he portrayed one as he accompanied John to the concert. “There are people who appreciate music with rapt attention, and there are those who follow a social norm because someone told them that classical music conveyed refined civilization.”

“Well, I’m here because I bloody like classical music _as hell_.”

One of Sherlock’s genuine smiles curved his lips in a warm huff of a laugh. “I’m sure of that.”

Of course they didn’t talk about the fact, needn’t talk about the fact, that John not only enjoyed the music but also making Sherlock a present. He was sure the man perceived music differently. But for John, classical music drew him down into a dream where he associated the sounds with feelings and thoughts – a universal language defined by past experiences.

Once the concert started, he found himself lulled into the overwhelming reverberation of the deep tunes the concert grand rang, complemented with the high strings of a violin. The acoustic conjured an atmosphere of a true sanctuary where the notes bounced from the confining walls.

“Originally, this piece didn’t include a piano, just violins. It’s an interpretation due to some missing pages from the original,” Sherlock whispered, and goose bumps rippled John’s skin under the many layers of clothes as Sherlock’s voice mingled with the lively Serenade No. 13 by Mozart.

From the corner of his eyes, John saw how Sherlock’s mouth curled into an appreciative smile. He leaned over to the man’s ear. “Mysteries and music are what it takes to get you out of your head.”

“Not entirely,” Sherlock turned his head, his gaze sweeping over John in a mix of amusement and seriousness. “They complement each other. Music helps me to think finding clues to solve a puzzle.” His eyes lingered on John’s lips for a moment before he dragged them back to the altar. “And sometimes music helps me to mute my ever-racing mind.”

John’s gaze followed Sherlock’s, watching the violinist’s immersed play to the fast sequences of notes. He tried to imagine Sherlock in her place, detached from this world while he would drown into the surreal creation of music. Sherlock had told him this morning that only drugs could mute his mind. Closing his eyes, John didn’t want to bring up this sorrowful image. He hoped that the man would always have the possibility to plunge into his musical sphere where nothing but Sherlock himself existed.

They listened to several pieces absorbed in a complete realm of harmony, losing any sense of time. John felt the warmth of Sherlock radiating beside him, their shoulders brushing against each other now and then as if the man sought the comfort.

When the last notes rang in the nave, echoing from the barrel vault and silence draped over the audience John opened his eyes again, the blurred vision of the white and golden ceiling providing quite a contrast to Sherlock in his black suit standing up to pay tribute to the musicians. The occasional clapping of hands transformed within seconds into a thunderous applause until their palms prickled with overstimulation.

John and Sherlock waited until the applause ebbed away and the masses shuffled to the exit, the gallery clearing for them. By the time the church was nearly empty, John interlaced Sherlock’s fingers to tug him gently along to the stairs. But downstairs John didn’t intend to head toward the great oaken door. Instead, he guided Sherlock toward the altar where the musicians stowed their instruments into the cases.

“Excuse me,” John spoke up when their shoes met the burgundy-colored carpet of the altar.

The violinist looked up, tugging her black long hair behind her ear. “Yes?”

“Would it be possible if my friend might borrow your violin for a few minutes?” John clothed his face in smiles, yet an honesty resonated with the question since he truly wanted to hear and see Sherlock play the violin. Beside him, the man’s eyes snapped to him while John reveled in the moment of utmost flabbergasted ignorance about John’s initial intentions. No. He didn’t come here only to enjoy the concert, but he wanted to bestow Sherlock the opportunity to plunge into rapture.

The young woman’s gaze drifted to Sherlock who stared at John with parted lips. “Sure,” she smiled as she held the violin outstretched for Sherlock to pick it up.

His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down before Sherlock regained his composure. He handed John his Belstaff and brushed invisible creases from his jacket as he walked to the violinist with two long strides, all elegance and grace back. Long fingers curled around the violin’s neck, taking the delicate instrument from the woman who stepped back, curious about what would happen next.

Sherlock’s hand glided along the curves of the polished wood. He hummed in appreciation at the smooth texture. His thumb’s fingernail scraped cautiously over the strings to test the violin for enough raisin before nestling his chin into the black wood. Mercurial eyes met John as he set the bow to play. “I haven’t composed in ages.”

_Composed?_ The thought echoed in John’s mind since once again Sherlock’s brilliance surprised him. Of course, the man wouldn’t condescend to play an existing piece but an ad hoc composition.

The first note was a long drawn deep tone, filling the church with music again. Sherlock’s eyes reflected the wistful sadness of the tone as they stayed locked with John who kept a distance, afraid of interfering with the man’s dexterity. Unable to interpret the facial expression, John regretted he couldn’t read Sherlock’s thoughts with the man’s astonishing ability of deduction. The lonely note ended its reverberation from the walls, and Sherlock flicked his wrist once to begin a frantic play of scrambling notes resonating in the nave while his eyes never left John within the confusion of organized chaos. With each new string along the bow, the composition became more and more prominent until only a calm piece floated in the silent current of pale blue, no other noise within the church daring to disturb the mesmerizing play.

Contrary to John’s expectation, Sherlock stood still, barely moving in front of the sanctuary. He had imagined that the man’s frenetic prancing would reflect in a boisterous play. Yet, the music conveyed a passion John had observed in the man just once – when they were chasing the clues of a crime that wasn’t committed.

When the piece settled into a beautiful rhythm of soft notes with Sherlock finding the cadence he had searched in his vast mind the man broke the intensity of their eye contact, sliding his lids closed. Amazed, John watched the fluent movements of Sherlock as he coaxed tender timbres from the instrument which emphasized the contrast of the restless energy inherent in the man. And then John understood what Sherlock meant with muting his mind. He seemed so in peace as he stood in the violet illumination of the spotlight, highlighting the purple color of his dress shirt. _Why would he say that sentiment is a chemical defect when he plays the violin with such emotional devotion?_ No one could play an instrument like this without having a heart. _It’s a wonder he didn’t run away when he listened to my play at the grand_.

John blinked and blushed at the memory of utter failure, albeit Sherlock’s play had started as muddled as his own dance over the keys. However, John was sure that Sherlock had just searched for the best melody conveying his mind since the failing harmony also displayed the man’s two extremes between mayhem and genius brilliance – a combination the world didn’t understand.

The tune picked up in pace for a final peak before slowing down in its wake. Sherlock’s arm stopped the movement, a complete stillness enveloping him in that silent sphere of his palace. Only when the last notes ceased to echo in the church did his eyes flutter open, finding John once again.

And whatever it was what he saw he daren’t breaking their eye contact again, blindly holding the violin for the woman to take the instrument. John’s heart leaped into his throat at the intensity of the gaze. What was it? Appreciation, gratitude, obligation? No. Despair or hope? No…

With two long strides, he closed the gap to John whose eyes widened when trembling hands cupped his cheeks as though gravity centered on John. Deep in his usually unflinching stare, anxiety and doubt flickered within the pale blue. It seemed that Sherlock needed to hold on him, afraid he would lose his balance, his control or even John himself who might want to squirm free of an unwanted caress.

But John had no such intention. Motionless, he closed his eyes, the last image blurred by his lashes – Sherlock’s lush lips.

And then everything exploded in a firework of sensation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to catch up with me you’ll also find me on [Tumblr](http://nymeria578.tumblr.com/).


	6. Devotion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always a huge thanks goes to my wonderful beta [GhostTari](http://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostTari/pseuds/GhostTari) who, as always, provided her invaluable help. If you still find some mistakes I’ll take the blame.
> 
> And of course thanks for all the kudos and lovely comments! They’re making my day :)

John sat in the cab, still stunned by the delightful shock Sherlock had conjured in him. A prickling sensation lingered on his lips. But as the minutes ticked away, the layers of soft warmth faded from the rosy skin and his subconscious began to wonder if he had dreamed the kiss.

His body buzzed from the thunder pounding in his chest as Sherlock strode toward him. Shaky hands had sought permission, a timid stroke with his fingers over the faint stubble on John’s cheek. Sherlock leaned forward to let their breaths mingle for a second while hiding his pale blue uncertainty behind closing lids. John followed suit and let sensation flood his mind at the first chaste brush over his lips, inciting an iridescent explosion.

The faint smell of a cigarette hit John’s olfactory sense. A bad habit that John, as a doctor, wouldn’t endorse but condone since he knew about Sherlock’s past now. Pushing an addict was never a good idea. Sherlock’s breath conveyed his last drink. To John’s surprise, it didn’t bear the man’s usual gin and tonic. Instead, the rich flavor of a sweetened black tea draped over his still closed mouth.

Sherlock’s lips brushed to the corner of John’s mouth. Doubt stilled him there since John hadn’t responded yet. The soft and pliant plasticity fondled in a tender caress, waiting for any reciprocation. The timidity brought John back to the reality of the cold church. And all of a sudden gravity pulled at John. He tilted his head in the blind search for this warm seduction until their lips met in an unfamiliar dance.

John parted his lips, nipping at Sherlock’s lush bottom lip, still diffident as if afraid he might cross a line. But Sherlock neither retreated nor looked reproachfully at John. Instead, he closed his mouth around John’s and brushed the tip of his tongue over John’s upper lip – an invitation. The awareness shot a rippling tickle over John’s crown along with a shiver down his spine, inflaming his stomach with molten blood. He chased Sherlock’s tongue, probed past those luscious lips. Sharp teeth scraped dangerously until the man opened his mouth wide enough to let their tongues slide against each other.

John’s eyes rolled back into his head behind closed lids. Hands blindly reached for support as he lost the solid ground under his feet. His fingers bunched into the expensive fabric of Sherlock’s jacket to draw him flush against him. Afraid the man might dissolve into thin air his grip intensified, hands grabbing and holding at the slender waist as John explored his mouth.

While their tongues waltzed around each other sensation burst with each wet stroke before Sherlock sucked at John’s tongue. A hot firework set off and stirred an arousal within John’s inner core. Flames licked up his body, threatening to consume John as they did with the effigy of Guy Fawkes. Heat enticed him into a never-ending maelstrom with no return as he fell for the man. The memory of Sherlock’s mouth around his cock made him dizzy with desire and he pressed himself even harder against the lean structure.

When Sherlock released his tongue a whimper wavered in John’s throat at the loss of the alluring warmth. But instead of retreating, the man’s lips trailed a soft path of scraping teeth along John’s jawline to his ear. “Let’s go back to the hotel.”

The deep rumble so close against his ear rippled his skin once again with pleasure he never had assumed existed. He opened his eyes. The blurred image over Sherlock’s shoulder revealed a blushed violinist focusing on hastily packing her instrument in a case. His hazy gaze followed the pale expanse of Sherlock’s long neck over his sharp jawline until he met a mercurial corona around eclipsed darkness. John swallowed at the suggestion and nodded, unable to produce a coherent word.

A blinding light from the oncoming traffic tore John from his reminiscence to the reality of the cab again with a gaping distance between him and Sherlock. Once the shadows adorned the cab again John watched Sherlock’s angular profile while the man glued his gaze to the outside world. A slight nervousness settled in his stomach. Afraid that Sherlock regretted his sweet ambush John fidgeted in his seat. Why would he suddenly keep this motionless distance? Sherlock remained too inscrutable for him to read his brilliant mind. Could it be regret? Fear? Or concerned anticipation?

Was it an honest kiss? Or was it a deliberate step to bind a paying customer? No. John shook his head a fraction, refusing to believe such scheme by Sherlock. Otherwise, Sherlock would have accepted his offer for a flat to see him on a regular basis which the man had rejected, feeling degraded.

Since John held no deductive skills he had but one way to find out. So his hand glided over the worn leather of the seat to meet Sherlock’s fist resting beside his thigh. A soft brush over white knuckles asked for permission. In response, Sherlock flexed his hand and opened it for John.

The gesture spoke of reassurance as those long fingers curled around John’s in a tender caress. Sherlock’s gaze dropped from his self-proclaimed battleground to their hands. A hint of astonishment crossed his face before he lifted his eyes to meet John with a shy smile. And then, his doubt washed away as the unfocused stare drifted into a warm current of pale blue. John would never have recognized such a subtle shift a few days ago, but now the flicker bared all the admission he had needed.

Once they arrived at the hotel John didn’t abstain from his new-found liberty. As soon as he paid the cabbie he slid his hand again into Sherlock’s palm, tugging gently to steer him to the lifts. He would never ever hide again.

A soft voice from behind startled their quiet intimacy while they waited for the doors to slide open. Mike Stamford cleared his throat, “Dr. Watson.”

“Mr. Stamford. Good evening.” John turned around without relinquishing Sherlock’s hand.

“Excuse me for interrupting, but I have a letter for you. The sender was very adamant that you should receive it today.” The hotel manager held a small envelope out to John who frowned at the name of the sender.

“Thank you,” John said, the white paper rustling as he took it.

The lift chimed eventually, and Mr. Stamford tipped his head to bid his goodbye. Not before they stood in the silent confinement of the cage John ripped the envelope open.

“It was to be expected,” Sherlock’s baritone conveyed wariness, if not a warning for John to be prepared.

“Yes,” John murmured, a sour taste on his tongue as he flipped open the resignation of Sebastian Wilkes. Enclosed, he also found an invoice with a ridiculously high sum he intended to charge John as a compensation for his work as a broker.

Sherlock stepped closer and took the paper from John, a deep frown furrowing his brows as he read the document. “You can always contest the claim. It’s an exorbitant sum.”

John snorted a derisive laugh about the insolence of his ex-broker. “He knows I won’t contest his claim.” Once John had handed the solution to Harold Dimmock on a silver platter he let his mask drop. Sebastian Wilkes understood that John would want the matter to be off the table. This became a personal matter since John inadvertently deigned his broker a glimpse into his privacy regarding Sherlock. Moreover, John didn’t want to provoke a legal process as he was tired of a world revolving around money. “No, I will pay him and get it over with.”

“He upset you.” Glacial blue pierced through John, but he held the gaze, clenching his jaw at the impertinence of the banker.

“He offended me.”

“By?”

“By insulting you,” John swallowed, a new wave of anger surging up again.

Sherlock bent over close enough that his breath tickled at John’s ear. “What?” John sensed a cheeky grin against his shell. “Was he concerned that I might have sucked your brain out straight through your cock?”

To hear those filthy words from such a sophisticated mind shocked John. Caught between mild indignation and arousal, his breath hitched before a giggle bubbled up in his throat.

A sudden rasping sound of paper ripped apart filled the cage as Sherlock destroyed the affront. The subsequent silence pressed on John’s ears, the echo still reverberating the man’s act. An inner thrill evoked another flash of goose bumps rippling over his skin before he pushed Sherlock against the burnished golden wood. He gripped the hand holding the remnants of Wilkes’ document while his other hand raked through Sherlock’s soft curls to cup the back of his skull.

Sherlock gasped softly against his mouth. A wicked grin lurked in John’s eyes while his mouth twitched in mischief of having caught Sherlock off-guard. Tearing Sebastian’s notice to shreds marked a fortitude which allowed a crack in Sherlock’s cool façade. John was sure that the man didn’t solely act on behalf of wounded vanity, but also on protectiveness. Sebastian Wilkes’ claim betrayed more than insolence. No. He was seeking revenge and wanted to see John bleed. Although John was willing to concede any sum to have his peace Sherlock saw that differently.

But what should John do with this? The man would be gone in two days. Yet, his act screamed otherwise and set John’s body aflame, courageous to take the lead after Sherlock granted him that forbidden kiss.

This time, no one asked for permission as they waltzed now together in familiar territory. John cradled Sherlock’s head as he stretched himself up to close his mouth over Sherlock’s, probing his tongue past those lush lips. A moan evaporated between them, but John couldn’t make out whether it came from him or Sherlock. While their tongues stroked in a seductive rhythm John realized his scent still lingered on Sherlock from their first kiss – like a mark he had left. The musky remnant sent a possessive shiver down his spine.

A faint rustling of paper implied Sherlock’s pliant movement as his hands cupped John’s waist, drawing him even closer. The man tilted his head to grant John better access while sharp teeth scraped languorously over his plush bottom lip. John felt Sherlock’s hand bunch into his jacket for leverage while his other hand splayed on the small of John’s back, pushing the compact structure ever so gently into his own slender frame.

John’s nerves exploded in sensation at the grip while Sherlock simultaneously drove his hips forward in want of melting together. He drowned in a swell of emotions with every catch of his lips against Sherlock’s – a bittersweet mixture of exhilaration and despair. With a kiss, they had crossed a line, unable to reestablish their original partnership on a business level. Hope spread in John’s chest, warming him from inside out. Yet a small whisper lingered in his mind. Doubt sent forth icy spikes to bring him back down to earth. To a reality where Sherlock had repeatedly explained that John would let him go; an implication resonating with Sherlock’s want to leave him again.

While the dichotomy surged through him the kiss became a fragile, trembling caress after the first heat ebbed away. John forced himself to duck his head. He needed some space between them to give his ever-racing thoughts a moment’s consideration. How far was he indeed willing to go? The burning question smoldered in his mind since he met Sherlock. His reflection didn’t just squint toward a relationship beyond the time of his hotel suite, but also contributed a physical notion.

Sherlock dipped his head in pursuit of John’s mouth, nudging him with his nose. Uncertainty kept him hovering in his place, asking for the touch. His arousal was palpable behind the confinements of his trousers, yet he waited for John’s decision. The intimate closeness engulfed John, lulled him into a subconscious feeling of never-ending warmth. Still, as pleasant the embrace was, he choked on the twin-question as to how far Sherlock was willing to go. He rolled the tip of his tongue over his bottom lip, chasing the delicious taste before turning into a memory. Darkness threatened to consume John at the truth, draping over him and trickling down his body like liquid tar with no space to breathe. He knew if he would take this last step to become one with Sherlock he could never let him go.

His hand trailed over the nape of Sherlock’s neck to evoke a soft shudder in the man whose lips wavered with the effort of regaining control. “Sherlock,” John sighed, afraid of yet another rebuff. Although they knew every inch of each other by now, shyness overcame John on voicing his desire. But before he could ask about Sherlock’s limits the lift chimed, announcing their arrival at the thirty-seventh floor.

A warm puff tickled John’s cheek while Sherlock’s hand slid from the small of his back to take John’s hand. He squeezed in reassurance as if John had found the courage to ask his question. “I’m here with you,” his baritone rumbled deep in his throat. “If I wouldn’t want to be with you I wouldn’t be here.”

At this, John finally looked up to meet blown wide eyes shimmering with passion and despair for John to see. He nodded fueled by Sherlock’s implicit trust and tugged him gently along, taking the lead again which Sherlock had waited for.

A click in the lock let John press the handle down. The darkness in his mind had faded at Sherlock’s concession, leaving him in a state of floating in a fantasy between reality and dream. Sherlock hung his Belstaff on the coat rack to shrug his jacket off his shoulders. Unable to cast off his amazement at the fluid motions of Sherlock’s lithe body, the man lured John within his grasp.

John shed his own jacket, letting the fabric hastily fall to the ground. He closed the gap between them and twined his arms around the slim waist from behind. Burying his nose in the purple dress shirt, he inhaled the sweet musky scent between Sherlock’s shoulder blades. Nostrils flared with anticipation when heat pooled into his lower abdomen. He nuzzled his way over the collar to find alabaster skin while his hands trailed a path upwards at Sherlock’s front. Pads ran over delicate buttons until his index finger hooked behind the knotted confinement of the black tie. His mouth closed over the long expanse of Sherlock’s neck, nipping and sucking as he loosened the tie. Sherlock gasped at the light scrape of teeth along tender flesh and arched his back which granted John better access. Like this, Sherlock’s firm roundness pressed against John’s straining erection. The captivating sensation stilled John, holding his breath, overcome by Sherlock’s responsiveness.

“Sherlock, I’m not so sure how…”

The man’s hand came up to cup John’s wrist and guide him through his momentary paralysis of overwhelming desire. He tugged gently to let the tie slip free from the neck. “As a doctor I’m fairly certain you know how,” Sherlock teased, tilting his head so John could see his cheeky grin.

“No,” John said, his other hand dropping to Sherlock’s hip, gripping tightly and pulling him on his lap to vent his insinuation. “What I mean is how far you’d allow me to go.” Sherlock never elaborated of what he might deem as too kinky. “Where are your boundaries?”

Sherlock considered the question for a moment before his head fell back into the crook of John’s neck. He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. “Would you like fucking me or would you like to be fucked?”

John’s eyes widened at the blunt question. He wasn’t used to Sherlock speaking with such blatant words which nailed the meaning rather than to dance around the subject. The man’s sophisticated mind barely hinted at the assumption to be brutally clear about what he wanted in bed, even though he was a prostitute. It mirrored yet another trait in his two extremes. The world around him might perceive him as a freak using deductive skills, ignorant toward others while he couldn’t be deterred from what he wanted. Yet, those people might never deem his freakish brilliance to be considerate, reflecting in such blunt words a sensitivity as to give John the freedom to decide.

“I’m not an exclusive bottom,” Sherlock added as he turned his head to suck at John’s earlobe. The implication let John’s stomach clench with sweet desire. An electrifying flash pulsed through his body since he had never thought about the idea. Surprised at his body’s excited quiver, he realized for the first time that he wouldn’t be averse to it.

The sudden awareness ripped him from his hazy dreamlike turmoil to find the courage giving voice to his yearning. “I want to fuck you.”

Sharp teeth bit down the lobe before Sherlock released the soft flesh. “Then take me to bed.”

John’s hips snapped forward at the suggestion while a soft laugh bubbled up his throat. They had never made it to bed for sex those last days. But this time, Sherlock took the lead and tugged John through the living room where they toed their shoes off.

The skyline of London presented a beautiful tableau in front of the bedroom’s scenery, and John decided not to close the curtains. The city and Sherlock had morphed into his own battleground to fight his past shadows in which John came out victorious. He looked at the sparkling white lights in the distance, a content smile curling his lips. The bedroom shone with a dimmed ambient light framing the wall above the bed whereas the rest of the room hid in grayer shades. Hence, the vast window front portrayed the proceedings in the room like a mirror before translucent darkness. John saw Sherlock reflected in the glass standing beside the bed, fumbling with the tiny buttons of his dress shirt.

“Let me,” he said, walking over to Sherlock to gently shove his hands aside.

John averted his eyes from Sherlock’s scrutinizing gaze. “You really like to take care.” It was a question disguised as a statement, betraying wonder and affection likewise.

“Well, it’s not just about sex, isn’t it?”

“Says the man to the hooker.”

“What’s so bad about sentiment?” John bit his lip the second the words slipped his tongue. Afraid of the answer, he had carefully avoided this specific question since Sherlock made his position clear the first night.

Sherlock stared down at John’s fingers undoing each annoying button after each annoying button with such content patience while he considered his reply. “It lulls you into a sense of safety and makes you vulnerable.”

John weighed the words in his mind until he put the last button through the small hole. “Yes,” he acknowledged the blunt truth beyond the sentence. His gaze roved up to meet Sherlock’s mercurial eyes, confusion written all over them before he saw John’s warm smile lurking in the corners of his mouth.

“Then take care of me,” he husked, leaning into John’s frame with a silent plea.

Their lips met again, first chaste and innocent after the revealing truth about trust. But the unspoken want quickened their rhythm. Their mouths collided once again and teeth scraped over sensitive flesh while their tongues waltzed around each other now in a familiar dance. John’s hands sought the smoothness of hot skin underneath the purple dress shirt, gliding them over lithe muscles, brushing them over pebbled nipples to stroke them over Sherlock’s shoulders. The shirt slid with a whisper down to Sherlock’s arms where his wrists trapped the expensive fabric. Without breaking the kiss, John fumbled blindly at the cuffs to open the buttons. An annoyed groan wavered in his throat at his incompetence. So he just yanked Sherlock’s wrists free, ignoring the flying pearl gray buttons.

Since the shirttails were still tucked in the trousers the cotton hung down over Sherlock’s arse, but John couldn’t care less. His hands sought the flawless skin, its creamy hue a beautiful contrast to the room’s dimness. Goose bumps rippled the smooth flesh at Sherlock’s waist as John trailed the trousers’ waistband with his fingers to the front where he fought with the fly.

While focusing on undressing each other, their kisses drifted into a languorous rhythm of exploration. John stroked Sherlock’s tongue and swept over the rim of teeth as his mouth sucked appreciatively at the luscious bottom lip. Focused on the kiss, he sensed Sherlock struggling with the button border of John’s dress shirt, knuckles brushing against his hot skin. A prickling sent delightful shocks over his body. He was in desperate need to feel Sherlock, wanted him against his skin with no disturbance of any layer of clothing.

John’s own fingers swept over the straining erection beneath snug pants as he unzipped the black trousers. Sherlock’s breath hitched, becoming shallow while he rested his forehead against John’s. Both men looked down their bodies where John hooked his fingers in the waistband. He waited a moment to relish the tingling excitement before pushing the exquisite fabric over the firm curve of Sherlock’s arse, letting it pool around the man’s feet.

“At least, I won’t ruin this suit,” Sherlock rasped with mocking honesty that caused a giggle to bubble up John’s throat.

“I’m not safe yet,” John declared when Sherlock kicked his trousers aside.

Instead of freeing John’s wrists from the cuffs of his dress shirt Sherlock reached for his trousers’ fly. John held his breath as he watched deft fingers working the button and zip open to rid him of his trousers along with his pants. While John sidestepped the pool of his fabric he tugged his wrists free and shrugged out of his shirt.  

Sherlock’s eyes shifted in the dimmed light. His gaze ran up and down John’s compact structure and took in every detail. The back of his knees hit the bed and the man sat down, cotton rustling softly as the mattress dipped under his weight.

John followed him never losing eye contact. The cool air in the room engulfed his nude form. The briskness helped him to come down from the high, induced by Sherlock. He focused on his body to relish each touch rather than to come undone the moment he embraced the man.

With Sherlock sitting in front of him John benefitted from their height difference the other way around as he stepped between the man’s legs to cup his head. His fingers played with some unruly curls at the nape of Sherlock’s neck while his lips closed over Sherlock’s.

A wicked spark lurking beneath the pale blue, Sherlock grabbed John’s waist to scrape his nails along those sensitive flanks. He grinned against John’s kiss when John squirmed under the touch, betraying his own ticklish weakness. But before John could snatch those teasing hands, Sherlock scooted over the bed to the pillows piled at the headboard.

John’s cobalt blue flickered hungrily at the mischief as he chased after to get hold of an ankle. He pulled the man back to the middle where he crawled on top, one knee placing between the vee of Sherlock’s legs. With the slightest of pressure, John pushed against Sherlock’s cock, still trapped in the imprisonment of his tight-fitting pants. It evoked a shameless roll of the man’s hips against John’s thigh as he sought the sweet friction.

They kissed again. John increased the pressure with his knee to let Sherlock strive for his release. As he leaned forward John closed the last inches between them. Hot skin met in an all-burning, all-consuming fire, scorching them with each contact. A moan escaped his mouth at the intoxicating sensation. Once again, John broke the kiss to duck his head and look down their glued bodies. He watched, mesmerized, as Sherlock’s pliant muscles flexed and shifted with each sweet frisson and roll of his hips.

“God, you’re beautiful,” John husked in-between ragged breaths. His index finger traced the play of planes under smooth alabaster skin. The distinct landscape of ribcage and softer flanks stretched out before the touch was disturbed by elastic cotton. John hooked his fingers in the waistband, pulled it tight and let it snap back to provoke a gasp from above. “You’re definitely overdressed.”

John chuckled, a naughty grin ghosting over the soft skin of Sherlock’s throat. His lips brushed along sinews and muscles to the thunderous pounding of the carotid. Sherlock arched his neck to grant John better access who mouthed at the pulse, the excited flutter an encouraging drum against his tongue. He trailed kisses downward over the hard ridge of a protruding collar bone. Delighted by Sherlock’s moans, John grazed his teeth along the sharp bone.

While rocking his hips against John’s knee over and over again, Sherlock tried to reach John’s own jutting erection. But John carefully avoided any contact since he relished this foreplay too much to come into the man’s hand once again.

Instead, he licked and mouthed the sensitive alabaster skin. An unfamiliar possessiveness overwhelmed him as he reveled in some of his soft bites reddening. They would paint the pale canvas by morning with a faint pink here and there.

When John met one of Sherlock’s nipples a sparse dusting of hair brushed along his lips, intensifying his oversensitive skin. The ticklish sensation was muffled by the pebbled bud. John’s tongue pressed against it, and the nipple stiffened even more under the caress. Molten blood pumped through his veins and spiky flashes of arousal pulsed down his spine to the small of his back. He couldn’t help it anymore as his own hips snapped forward in a shudder of pure pleasure, but found just the cotton of the sheets.

Circling his tongue around the bud, Sherlock ground down in earnest against John’s knee, arching his back into the sweet torture. A damp patch soaked the fabric of Sherlock’s pants, indicating at how far gone the man was already. Detached from the world for once, his brilliant mind stilled and a more carnal instinct took over his consciousness.

With a final suck at the nipple, John let his teeth scrape over the sensitized flesh to resume his seductive exploration. He would never tire in indulging Sherlock like this, witnessing how far he brought the man to lose every sense of self-control and commit his entire trust to John.

Once he found the small round hollow between the chiseled vale of Sherlock’s abdominal muscles, John dipped his tongue into the shadow. A dainty taste of purely Sherlock prickled at his tongue as he licked into the navel.

John had shifted to the end of the bed for his tender examination, taking away the sweet pressure of his knee for Sherlock to roll against. Instead, the man’s cock now pressed at John’s chest, seeking warmth and contact.

John’s hands cupped the sharp crests of Sherlock’s hipbones, enjoying the unrestrained squirming beneath him. A heavy musky scent hung over his groin, and John couldn’t refrain from bending down over the inviting bulge in Sherlock’s briefs. He mouthed the fabric, and Sherlock snapped his hips upward into the tempting heat.

“John,” Sherlock moaned, voice thick with arousal. Yet a warning undertone resonated with the lust.

John nodded through the hazy cloud of his own urgent desire, remembering Sherlock’s rules. He leaned back on his heels to reach for the drawer of the nightstand. Several packs of condoms and a bottle of lube weighed in his hand as he grasped what he was about to do. Once again, reality ripped him from his racing mind, forced him to a stop to consider, afraid of his own inexperience. Basically, he knew what to do – he had seen porn and in the end, he was a doctor. Still, a small flicker of nervousness settled in his stomach and clenched it into knots.

He swallowed though his mouth felt parched suddenly. “Take off your pants.”

Sherlock lifted his arse and got rid of the last layer of clothes between them. Before he lay back again to prop his weight onto his elbows, he kissed John once again. His tongue swept over the contrastive edge of John’s teeth. John chased the tempting tongue, sharp and insulting to people Sherlock disliked. But never with John where only truthful words had cut deep into his sore wounds to heal them from within. He bumped into Sherlock’s knee with his chest. The man had braced his feet flat on the mattress for leverage while watching John through blackness devouring pale blue.

Putting the lube and the condoms next to Sherlock, John knelt back on his heels. He dipped his head to kiss the rougher skin of Sherlock’s knee. His eyes never left Sherlock’s intense stare while he trailed gentle kisses down his thigh. A slight tremble went through the supple body, so Sherlock let his leg fall aside. Unwavering, John followed the path to the silkier skin of the inside of the thigh. His hand mimicked the brush of lips on the outside until the protruding crest of a hipbone made him stop.

John’s gaze tore away from Sherlock’s blown wide eyes as he brought space between his lips and the man’s cock laying heavily on his lower stomach. He ripped the foil package open and retracted the rest of the foreskin to unroll the latex onto Sherlock’s length.  A hiss from above made John look up, worried he might have overstimulated the man. Arms yielding, Sherlock fell back against the soft mattress. But his mouth parted in sweet agony as the pleasure rippled his skin. John’s cock gave a sympathetic jerk at the voluptuous sight.

He began to tease Sherlock’s cock at the tip with his tongue circling the glans. In reward, Sherlock rocked his hips upward again, pushing ever so slightly against John’s tantalizing tongue. While John sucked Sherlock, never too much as to bring him too close to the luring abyss of bliss, he put a generous amount of lube on his fingers, smearing the slick fluid between them. He traced a wet path down the sac and over the perineum. Gingerly increasing the pressure, John evoked a deep groan from the man before the pad stroked over puckered skin. Drawing small circles, John waited until Sherlock’s muscles relaxed under the caress to push one slippery finger into dry heat.

Startled at the intrusion, Sherlock tensed and, involuntarily, drew John deeper into his body. John waited for Sherlock to get used to the invasive sensation, chasing the pulsing of a vein with his tongue while brushing up and down in a soothing manner. The tightness around John’s finger surprised him a bit, wondering how to push past that taut entrance with his cock. But after a few minutes of gentle caresses with his mouth and careful strokes with his finger the muscles loosened. Sherlock even established his own rhythm of pushing back against the finger, and John tried a second digit.

It wasn’t as easy as the first one, but John pressed gently yet persistently forward. Now and again, Sherlock lifted his arse, chasing a mix of pleasure and burning sensation. Once he had pushed past the taut sphincter the finger slid effortlessly into place, brushing along the hot confinements of Sherlock’s body.

With a hitch in his throat, Sherlock arched into the touch, seemingly indecisive about thrusting into John’s mouth or grinding back against his fingers. John hollowed his cheeks and sucked one last time down Sherlock’s length just to release him with the hint of teeth.

“Guess I found your soft spot, love.” The endearment rolled over his tongue without thinking. He smiled at the debauched man, once again ghosting his pad over Sherlock’s prostate.

“John, please,” he moaned, rocking his hips against exploring fingers since the mouth was gone.

“Not yet,” John mumbled, his own arousal almost choking him with thickening desire at the plea. “Let’s try a third finger. I don’t want to hurt you.”

It took all John’s effort to not comply with Sherlock’s wish and just thrust into the infatuating heat. Instead, a third finger pushed past the tight entrance. He came up, and Sherlock’s hands that had fisted into the sheets now cupped John’s head, pulling him in for another kiss. A rumble surged in John’s chest to dissolve into a deep groan in Sherlock’s mouth as he stroked the man open. Brushing along the sensitive tissue hidden in Sherlock’s body, his nails scraped over John’s neck as he tried futilely to melt with John.

Their cocks brushed against each other while Sherlock ground down and arched into the blissful frisson of John above him. It nearly drove John mad, and above all, he sensed his cock stiffening even more, twitching against the seductive touch. He tore himself from those plush lips bewitching him before he got lost in the uncontainable lust and came undone.

Reluctant, the man released John’s neck. He watched with those piercing eyes as John unrolled a condom on his own length and squeezed a generous amount of lube onto the latex. Sherlock’s hand curled around his cock, stroking up and down to spread the shiny fluid, and John bit his bottom lip.

“I wanted this that first night,” the baritone husked, a whisper instead of the full rumble deep in his throat. “Before I might never get the chance to say this I wanted you to know that when we met at Leicester Square I wanted you.”

“Why wouldn’t you get the chance to say this?” John rasped.

“Because you might want to leave me at the end of the week.” As if he wanted to hide the truth of his words, the anxiety of his emotions, Sherlock turned on his stomach. He grabbed two pillows and put them beneath his hips.

“Why would I want you to leave?” John frowned at Sherlock’s position as the man buried his face in the crook of his elbow. He wanted to see Sherlock, drown in those ethereal eyes clouded with pleasure when John took him to pieces like the man had after their first meeting, deducing a truth John had hidden so well – even from himself. This was everything he wanted. Why would he want Sherlock to leave?

“You will let me leave,” Sherlock insisted, his voice muffled by pillows and his arm before he gasped when John kissed the firm curve of his arse.

“And if I don’t want to?” He trailed soft kisses to the small of Sherlock’s back, feeling the quivers below his lips. His hand brushed over the roundness to Sherlock’s front. Fingers curled around the man’s length to give it a languorous stroke while John’s cheek rested between Sherlock’s shoulder blades, his eyes unfocused and distant at the confession.

“No one wants me… eventually…” John sensed the hollow anguish in his chest, constricting and convulsing with pain at the words. Careful to not cause an overstimulation, he eased off Sherlock’s condom and dumped it onto the floor. The undisturbed touch of silky skin smooth against John’s fingers mingled with the sad implication that screamed of loneliness. He poured all his emotions into the caress while he nuzzled upward to the fringe of curls at the nape of Sherlock’s neck.

Nose combing through tousled hair, John inhaled deeply before his lips ghosted over Sherlock’s ear. “ _I_ want you.”

Another shudder undulated through Sherlock, and a coy smile tugged at John’s mouth, afraid of exposing his own feelings. Sherlock’s words had been picked with deliberation, John recognized. Whether Sherlock meant to leave him or John would want to leave him remained open in the ambiguity of the semantics.

“Yes,” Sherlock’s reply provided no more clarity since he also didn’t elaborate, but it spoke of consent, laying bare his trust.

John kissed the ear and returned to the flawless skin of Sherlock’s back. Muscles shifted and flexed as John pressed his forehead against hot skin. He nudged Sherlock’s knees apart, his cock sliding along Sherlock’s perineum to elicit a push against John’s groin. His hand released Sherlock’s cock, accompanied by a whimper from the man as he grabbed for the sharp hips. Drawing back from between Sherlock’s thighs, John aligned their bodies and pushed cautiously into the taut heat.

Sherlock’s muscles tensed beneath John’s cheek. The ridges of his spine bowed into the touch as John entered him ever so slowly. Even John squeezed his eyes shut at the overwhelming sensation as he thrust deeper inch by inch. He panted for breath since he had pressed all the air out of his lung. “Fuck,” he gritted through clenched teeth at the tightness around his cock.

In the end, it was Sherlock who urged back with an impatient moan to overcome the last inch and get John completely buried into his body. John took a steadying breath and waited until he sensed Sherlock loosening around him.

With painstaking prudence, John pulled out a little. He sensed Sherlock’s muscles gripping at him, tugging him back again. A groan wavered in John’s throat as he obliged and thrust into the intoxicating heat, surprised at how easily he glided back in place. He threatened to combust at the heady passion. The pure sensation of fervent desire and tender intimacy raked fiery tendrils down his spine, melting into a smoldering in his lower abdomen. As never before, John felt so vulnerable in exposing his hunger – not just the carnal instinct but also the ache in his chest that throbbed with devotion.

He set an unhurried pace of withdrawing and pushing back in, his face still pressed against Sherlock’s back. A slight sheen of sweat glistened on the creamy skin. John had opened his eyes again, watching lithe muscles move over a distinct ribcage as Sherlock arched up and down with John’s thrusts.

The man was shoved up the bed with each push. He finally let go of his arm to muffle his moans and braced his hands against the headboard. Like this, the angle changed. John adjusted their position, straightening himself as he thrust into the all-captivating bliss. His hands gripped tighter at Sherlock’s hips, dragging the man back on his cock.

At this point, John couldn’t tell anymore whether Sherlock was devouring him or if he devoured Sherlock. They met in a mutual rhythm, each of John’s thrusts accompanied by a sharp exhalation from both men. It filled the room with voluptuous noises of slapping skin and moans.

Hot flames licked up his body. An inferno mottled his compact structure with reddish hues as he watched Sherlock moving with the pace John had set. The man’s head hung between his shoulders. He panted with ragged breaths hitching in his throat as John brushed along the sensitive prostate over and over again. Yet it wasn’t enough to make him come. John sensed him tremble against the jarring energy that overwhelmed him, but gave him no release.

Alleviating the strain from Sherlock’s body and supporting his weight, John sat back. He held firm to Sherlock’s hip with one hand. Splayed fingers pressed his back against John’s chest as he snaked a strong arm around the man’s waist up to the pectorals. Sherlock groaned, a sonorous rumble in his throat, vibrating through his back to John. He spread his legs that framed John’s, rocked his hips sideways and back to grind himself down on John’s lap.

“God,” John moaned as he puffed a hot damp breath against Sherlock’s shoulder. “You feel so good.”

The new angle was all about depth. But John could barely move with Sherlock straddling him as he rocked the man just a bit upward thrust for thrust. Although his bad leg caused no pain anymore, this new-found position strained his muscles with a sweet ache of exertion he hadn’t felt for a long while. So he relished the tension in his thighs while Sherlock let his head drop back against John’s shoulder.

Within the cadence of a lascivious rhythm, Sherlock relaxed, nuzzling his face in the crook of John’s neck. The man’s hand came up. Long fingers raked through the crown of John’s honey-colored hair to cup the back of his head. He pulled John into another kiss, slow and seductive like John’s thrusts.

With the kiss and the languorous warmth radiating between them, they lingered at the edge of losing control. The desire waned for the sake of the pleasure rather than grabbing for the needed release. So they enjoyed their silent indulgence until Sherlock broke the kiss. A smirk tugged at his lips and John realized that the man wasn’t as fragile as he had assumed. A quiver tingled down John’s spine in thrilled anticipation after enjoying their little intermezzo of quiet love-making.

Sherlock leaned a little forward, separating their merged bodies. Cool air enveloped John’s overheated torso. Large hands grabbed John’s knees, bracing Sherlock’s weight. He lifted his hips, rising up on his own knees to work himself back down on John’s cock.

John couldn’t help but look at the lean frame taut like a bowstring in front of him as Sherlock began to ride him, taking over control with a hypnotizing rhythm. His eyes followed the trail of notches along the spine bending with the effort of rocking his hips, down to the small of his back and then to where their bodies bound with each other. The sight flashed electrifying impulses through his body, culminating in a gasp. Involuntarily, his hips rocked up to meet each of Sherlock’s wanton rolls.

John’s hands released Sherlock’s torso, cupping his thighs from the underside, supporting and bracing the quivering legs, strained from overextended pleasure. Each time Sherlock ground down, engulfing him in an all-consuming blaze, the man pulled his muscles tight to coax ragged grunts from John like an instrument. And he was so close.

“John, please,” Sherlock begged, his voice a panted whisper. It took John a moment to understand the plea since his mind had difficulties to catch up with the light-headedness of passion.

Releasing the support from Sherlock’s thighs, he realized how deep his fingernails had dug into the flesh. They were small crescents of lost control within the infectious current of growing desire. Sherlock would still wear them the next day, concealed by the trousers of his new suit John had bought. A slight possessiveness overcame John at the thought as he twined his arm once again around Sherlock. He cradled him back against his chest while his other hand sought the touch of Sherlock’s straining erection.

The man arched into the caress, his cock heavy in John’s palm, twitching and stiffening even more. In the end, Sherlock came after merely three full strokes, a drawn-out groan bubbling up his throat as his body stilled and held the tension. Sticky fluid trickled down John’s knuckles as he pumped through each spasm. Sherlock had pushed into the firm touch, giving John space to rock his hips upward, dragging him along the finite chase of lust.

John sensed the squeeze of Sherlock’s muscles around him. The captivating sensation caused his toes to curl as waves of scorching heat began to drown him in the blissful pleasure of release. He thrust one last time up while Sherlock fell back, taking him deep in again.

“Fuck,” John gritted through clenched teeth. His abdominal muscles flexed and he felt his balls draw tight before he tensed and the first gush of semen spurted into the condom. John’s head dropped forward, face pressing against Sherlock’s neck to muffle a guttural groan strung out with each new pulse of his cock.

Once the last convulsion ripped through his body the bittersweet agony of overstimulation ebbed away as well. Sherlock’s weight pressed against his torso, heavy-limbed with the relief of his climax. John’s hand came up, brushing over Sherlock’s chest up to his throat. His fingers fluttered over the bobbing ridge of Sherlock’s Adam’s apple. He swept gently along the jawline, implying the man to turn his face, so he could steal one last kiss before losing his last bit of strength.

Despite the kiss, he kept his eyes half-open, his gaze roving over Sherlock’s pallor. The blush of arousal was fading again. Long lashes drew dark crescents over his cheeks while his brows furrowed. John withdrew a fraction, “You all right?”

Before mercurial pools met John with a hazy gaze, his throat clicked audibly as he swallowed. “Just a bit overexerted.”

“Come here,” John clasped Sherlock tight against his chest while one arm braced their weight to lie down. He reached between them to carefully slip out of Sherlock’s enticing heat and wrap the condom into a tissue from the nightstand. As much as he hated to leave the heavenly warmth from Sherlock, he got up, retrieving the other condom to dump them into the bin of the bathroom. After washing himself, he returned with a flannel to clean Sherlock as well. The man himself was already half asleep. An appreciative smile curled his lips when he grabbed John’s wrist to draw him into an embrace.

John huddled against the taller man from behind, snaking an arm around his chest once again and mimicking the act of possessiveness and protectiveness likewise. His knees tucking in Sherlock’s pits, their bodies glued together in the afterglow of their release.

“I won’t let you go,” John breathed at the nape of Sherlock’s neck. Yet he met nothing but silence. The heavy swelling and falling of the man’s chest indicated the firm grip of sleep dragging him down into the vortex of sweet dreams.

***

The digits on the clock of the study told him about the early morning hour.

_Six ante meridiem._

He watched the shape of his own frame reflecting in the vast window front. An arc-shaped lamp on the desk provided the sole light. Dull, for it didn’t hide the expression on his face. Disgust painted his features when his hand came up to give his cigarette one last drag. He knew that smoking was prohibited in the hotel, but since he couldn’t sleep his old habit caught up with him again.

His mobile started to buzz on the huge desk. He looked at the number, wrinkling his nose as even more revulsion flooded him, let the bile rise up his throat – a sentiment aimed at himself.

After half a minute the buzzing stopped, and he stubbed out the butt in a tumbler. His pale eyes drifted back to the window, his battleground to his feet. But all he saw was the contrastive vee of the blue dressing gown against the pallor of his skin – and two small bruises partly concealed under the fine fabric.

He grabbed the seam at the vee, pulling the cloth tight around his body to obscure his betrayal.

His phone buzzed again, this time announcing a message. Repulsed by his own appearance, he stepped away from the window and wiped over the mobile.

_I was hoping to have heard from you by now, Mr. Holmes._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to catch up with me you’ll also find me on [Tumblr](http://nymeria578.tumblr.com/). I hope to update the next chapter by end of May.


	7. Downfall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always a huge thanks goes to my wonderful beta [GhostTari](http://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostTari/pseuds/GhostTari) who, as always, provided her invaluable help. If you still find some mistakes I’ll take the blame.
> 
> And of course thanks for all the kudos and lovely comments! They’re making my day :)

John grabbed blindly for his mobile on the nightstand. His thumb pushed the button to see the time – ten o’clock. With a disapproving grunt, he rolled back to the cozy warmth where Sherlock sprawled in the middle of the bed. His muscles flexed as he scooted over the soft mattress, enjoying the sweet soreness in his abdominal planes and thighs. He had expected more pain than he actually experienced now.

Propping up his face on an elbow, John looked at the man beside him. He still marveled at how easily Sherlock had fit into his life; how easily the man became a central part of his life. A part he had suppressed over and over again. Once, he only allowed it as a fantasy blurring at the edges because he was too afraid to acknowledge the truth to himself. But with Sherlock, all the distorted perceptions had turned into reality. A verity that finally lifted the tightness off his chest caused by hiding from society – a lie that his father and other people had nourished since his adolescence.

He hadn’t even spared a thought about melting into Sherlock, becoming one entity when he kissed him and feeling his heat seeping through to John. Even the question about who would fuck whom hadn’t appalled John. On the contrary, when Sherlock told him he wouldn’t exclusively bottom the fine hairs at John’s nape prickled and stood upright in curious anticipation. Even now the thought stirred a faint arousal, causing John to roll the tip of his tongue over the bottom lip.

However, as much he dreamed all those fantasies becoming real one day, he only imagined Sherlock as a part of those reveries; not some other bloke. He was never sexually attracted to Greg or any other friend. Apart from two or three guys from his unit, he never allowed delving too deep into that subject as to become tangible. With women it was easier, being overtly flirtatious. But with men he seemed to be pickier. Maybe this arose from his years-long oppression. For now, John could only imagine being with Sherlock.

His subconscious dictating the intention to wake the man, John raked his fingers through the dark cloud of tousled hair. Instinct drove him to just _feel_ the man. Of all the people he knew, Sherlock, who despised sentiment with his brilliant mind, caused John to shed his farouche persona as a businessman and don his own skin again to finally _feel_ again. A tingling sensation tickled under his skin, focusing his mind on his body to not just watch himself as if he floated over his body, but, in fact, sensed his being. And what he felt was excruciating real. So real he was afraid it might turn into a dream at last. A nightmare that might become true in two days…

To force the anxiety aside, John’s fingers swept through pliant strands of curls. Sherlock stirred under the touch and wakefulness clung to the man. Brows furrowed and his nose crinkled as he stretched his limbs to shake off the last remnants of drowsy stiffness. His arm laying over his head came up and caught John’s wrist. Eyes still closed, he tugged at John’s hand, leading it blindly to his mouth. Lush lips mouthed at the pulse, trailing tiny kisses before he pulled John above him.

Hands braced on either side of Sherlock’s head, John straddled his thighs, one long leg pushing up against his crotch. John sought the friction, already half-hard. But when one large hand cupped his head to pull him down for a kiss, John stilled for the pleasure of melting tongues. The kiss, slow and innocent, spoke of no desire to deepen the passion so to burn their bodies once again. Sagging into the unaccustomed intimacy, John yielded to the caress.

Instead of giving in to more carnal instincts, with relish they devoured each other’s mouths and tongues before John broke the kiss to prop himself up on his elbows. He stared amazed at Sherlock, “Wow, what was that about?”

“Appreciation.”

John huffed a warm laugh. What should he make of such an answer? Appreciation for what? Sherlock seemed to enjoy it, leaving out the important facts since he more often than not tended to talk ambiguously. It also seemed that he didn’t like to elaborate, but for the others to find out the truth. Hence, John leaned down again to hide his own blooming uncertainty with another kiss. As he mouthed at the full bottom lip, tongue trailing the scrape of teeth, he tasted the faint flavor of bitterness. “Did you smoke?”

Since he met the man, Sherlock only smoked but once; during the prickling chase of an innocent man. He had concealed his impatience in the haze of gray smoke while his mind raced through several possibilities of a murder. Smoking after sex appeared too clichéd for the consulting detective.

“I couldn’t sleep very well, so I passed my time by indulging in an old habit.” Sherlock sounded nonchalant, shrugging his shoulders. He ignored John’s confusion about him taking some time to _think_. Instead, he brushed his stubbled cheek against John’s until his lips husked at his ear, “Let’s have a shower, John.”

 “Together?” Bewilderment crept into John’s voice at the suggestion. The shared bath after a whole day chasing a suspect struck John as Sherlock just doing his job in comforting a customer. Once again, Sherlock’s words about sentiment rang in his ears, mirroring the sad truth of his past. Even so, now they conveyed the unequivocal wish to share emotions with someone else above the level of mere acquaintance. John recognized a shift in their relationship although he still hadn’t figured out what Sherlock sought in the long run. The man’s definition of sentiment withheld that he might also despise relationships as well. One could seek a lover without conceding too much clingy closeness. Shared common interests built a solid foundation of a relationship which helped people to grow deeper bonds. According to John’s interpretation, Sherlock’s past caused severe trust issues, prompting him to alienate himself from everything that hurt him. It reflected the same mistrust in the world John had learned over the years, peaking in the betrayal of his ex-wife. In this regard, John needed his distance in a partnership now and then, too. A dichotomy that came into conflict after Sherlock told him a few hard truths.

“That was the general idea. Despite your best efforts, there’s still semen sticking to my body.”

“And you think a shower together would help you get rid of it instead of getting off again?” John’s voice lowered by an octave, sounding dangerous with a hint of mischief.

Sherlock’s eyes sparkled with wickedness, a devilish grin tugging at his lips. Without answering the teasing, he pushed at John’s chest, flipping them over so he straddled John now. He nuzzled along John’s jawline, but instead of deepening his exploration he quirked a suggestive brow and got up.

The alabaster of his skin shimmered in the sunlight flooding the room as he padded to the bathroom, shooting John one last inviting glance over his shoulder. John sucked a sharp breath into his lungs before hastily disentangling himself from the duvets around his legs. He followed Sherlock to the shower stall hidden behind the dark green tiles of a wall that divided the bathroom.

“You’re my downfall,” John laughed, shaking his head at the back and forth of their little banters. In front of him, Sherlock stopped short, the spray of the quadrangular shower pouring over him and slicking down his dark hair. He hunched his shoulders for a moment, and John considered having said something wrong. Worried about his wording, an apology already lay on the tip of his tongue. But before he could utter one, Sherlock’s muscles relaxed again as he raised his arms to brush the wet curls out of his face. He turned around and stepped back out of the spray. Rivulets of water ran down the sculpture of his body while droplets clung to the dark curve of his eyelashes.

Blinking, Sherlock cast off the water which found its streak down sharp cheekbones and an angular jawline. John rolled the tip of his tongue over his bottom lip, thirsty to lick the droplets off the creamy skin. But Sherlock thwarted his plan and grabbed his shoulder, tugging him gently under the spray. He turned John around and raked his fingers through the graying shades of blond hair.

John groaned at the massage to get his hair wet. He heard the cap of the shampoo and slid his eyes shut. Foam whispered at his ears as Sherlock’s hands rubbed the product into John’s scalp. As soon as Sherlock stopped his soft kneading and water drummed down on John’s head and shoulders once again, the smooth streams of suds swept down his body in a tender caress.

Soon enough the streaks were replaced by Sherlock’s lathered hands roaming up and down his back. Here and there, he found a knot under John’s skin and massaged ever so gently to coax the tension from the muscle. His arms snaked around John’s torso, one hand deliberately rubbing over a sensitive nipple. John’s breath hitched and he let himself fall against the man, back to chest, while Sherlock’s other hand drew lazy circles over flexing abdominal muscles. His index finger trailed the narrow line of coarse hair below John’s navel down to the base of his cock, already half-hard with interest again.

“I am your downfall,” the deep rumble vibrated through Sherlock’s chest to John’s back. The man’s arms tightened around John’s flanks, intensifying the embrace beyond the words.

John frowned at the sudden graveness. He had meant it playfully, rather an innuendo on wearing him out. But Sherlock’s voice resonated with despair. For sure, without Sherlock, John wouldn’t have acknowledged his own lies to provoke a change. He would still pursue that buyout at all costs to secure his company’s reputation. But the man had opened his eyes, showed him a mirror image of someone not fitting into a world dictated by social norms. On that score, it was true. Sherlock was the downfall of John Hamish Watson, who, day after day, had donned a role of a businessman. He lost the deal – respectively thirty million pounds – and with it his company that he would divest.

“You’re the best thing that has ever happened to me,” John amended in a murmur, self-conscious and insecure about Sherlock’s feelings.

Sherlock didn’t move for a long moment, his arms a strong confinement as he held John close. Water poured down on them, tickled along the curves of their glued bodies. John sensed Sherlock’s turmoil in the man’s breath against his back, heavy and uneven in the rise and fall of his ribcage. “John, I should tell you…”

But John cut him off, afraid of another rejection. “No. Please, let me finish.” He grabbed at Sherlock’s arms twined around him, nails unconsciously digging into the pale flesh. Anxiety washed over John like the shower and replaced the fuzzy warm feeling with an icy glaze enveloping him. So he tightened the grip to not lose the man for recoiling at the gush of emotions.

“John…”

“No. It’s true. Without you, I would still live a life I didn’t want to.” In a skin too tight for him, constraining him and disguising his true nature. “I see now that I made a mistake when I proposed you to buy a flat only to drop by if I’d have some business in London. Pay you to keep you off the streets. I didn’t think. Everyone wants to accomplish something in their lives, and with my suggestion, I ignored that you’re more than just a _toy_. You deserve to find your own way.”

John fought the urge to turn around and cup the man’s face. He wouldn’t be able to finish his thoughts at Sherlock’s intense stare with a hint of revulsion about the emotional outburst. “Yet, I still believe it could work. I’d like to move back to London when my company is liquidated, and I’d like to live with you then.” John closed his eyes at the image of a shared flat, engulfed by domesticity. “I’d like to start working as a doctor again. Maybe at a private surgery, not at a hospital as a surgeon. Too much has happened to have such calm hands ever again.” He released the tight grip on Sherlock’s underarm and held his hands up in front of them – two broad palms with strong fingers perfectly still despite his inner turmoil. “But I confess this will only work when you stop selling yourself on the streets. I’m still on it for you to start as a private detective as well as a consulting detective for the police.”

“John…”

“I don’t want you to go, Sherlock.” His voice echoed from the tiled walls as he emphasized his decision.

Behind him, Sherlock drew a few shaky breaths. Eternity stretched between them with muting silence, only the water pouring down on them filled the room with a drumming patter. At last, Sherlock loosened his arms around John and slid down his back to kneel. His hands stroked over John’s soft flanks to the firm curve of his buttocks.

The next thing John knew were Sherlock’s fingers pushing his cheeks apart and a wet softness brushing over puckered skin which wasn’t the warm stream of water. His eyes widened at the recognition and he desperately needed to find a purchase to not topple over. The heels of his hands slammed against the cool wall. Fingers curled in search of a grip to steady him against the slick tiles.

Sherlock’s tongue drew lazy circles in a very intimate place John never had imagined getting touched. “I thought you aren’t into the kinky stuff?”

He sensed the grin against his skin. “Obviously, I haven’t elaborated what I deem as too kinky.”

“You never set boundaries,” John let his head fall to his chest, focusing on the strange feeling as Sherlock teased the entrance with his tongue. His cock had grown fully hard at a moment’s notice, a sweet ache flashing through its length.

Sherlock retreated a fraction, his warm breath huffing against sensitive skin and John nearly whimpered at the loss. “Shall I stop?”

“God, no!” John moaned, not caring about shame.

Sherlock’s lips returned, sucking gently at the hole while his tongue circled the flesh. John needed to concentrate on his body as it tended to move on his own, hips jerking forward for the missing familiar friction. Sherlock’s hands cupped his protruding hipbones and held him in place while he caressed and stroked the hypersensitive skin.

John panted as the seductive touch narrowed to the timid pressure of the tip of Sherlock’s tongue, probing past the taut muscle. Electrifying flashes pulsed to John’s lower back. A delightful throbbing pumped molten blood straight to his yet untouched erection. He looked down his body, his jutting cock flushed and already leaking. But before he could consider palming himself, a large hand curled around the shaft and gave it a languorous stroke. John bit his lower lip at the overstimulation. He couldn’t decide between thrusting forward into the alluring promise of friction or press back to fall apart as Sherlock took him to pieces.

Sherlock’s fingers rounded the flared ridge of his glans, flicking feather-light touches over the frenulum to the slit and back. The rhythm was intoxicating and overwhelming combined with Sherlock’s lips over his pucker. A slight tremble shook his legs, and he still tried to find a grip on the wall, flexing his hands over and over again until they clenched into fists. “Oh God, I…”

The groan drowned in water as Sherlock’s hand around him tightened. John felt his cock hardening in the fist, pressing against the confinement as he twitched. Sherlock’s tongue thrust deeper, and John gulped for humid air, words lost but for profanities gritted through clenched teeth. He stilled as the first wave of pleasure surged through his body. A tingling sensation crawled over his skin and mingled with thousands soft prickles caused by the spray. Infinity stretched in front of his closed eyes in a sea of white stars. The ripple quietened before a new spasm coiled in his lower abdomen to drag John along the riptide of the all-consuming bliss.

It took John a long moment to recuperate, his upper body leaning against the green tiles. Thighs trembling, he pushed himself back, trying to find his balance. Behind him, Sherlock got up as John turned around, finally daring to look at the man since his emotion-laden words.

“Come here.” John tugged Sherlock into an embrace that provided an anchor and comfort. Heavy-lidded eyes betrayed the haze of Sherlock’s arousal when he stepped into strong arms, his forehead pressing at John’s. His ragged breath turned shallow while John stroked his length. Fingertips trailed the protruding vein under silky skin and John sensed that Sherlock was far too gone already. His cock thickened in John’s palm, jerking within the tender caress. And then Sherlock came with a groan born deep in his throat, coating John’s knuckles with sticky fluid. The man panted with each shudder convulsing his slender frame while John marveled at pliant skin over shifting muscles. He sensed Sherlock’s hot breath ghosting over his face as he rubbed his forehead affectionately against John’s. Nuzzling along his brows, he dipped his head and closed his lips over John’s. They clung to each other as if they might drown, knowing too well that their shared passion would end too soon. Sherlock teased John’s mouth apart, slow and gentle to savor the caress in the afterglow. It was the most honest kiss as it didn’t initiate the heat of stirring a physical reaction but simply expressed affection and care.

They kissed for several long minutes while the water washed away the evidence of their intimacy. But a rumble in John’s stomach broke the wet sounds echoing from the walls, and they looked at each other with arched eyebrows.

“Really John? How can your body think of nourishment now?” Sherlock teased with a growing smirk.

“You’ve worn me out,” John chuckled at the reference to his declaration that Sherlock would be his downfall.

Sherlock’s gaze roved down to John’s flaccid cock. “Then you should order a hearty breakfast. I can finish here alone.”

At the ambiguity of what might come later, John blushed even more than the hot and humid bathroom evoked. He swallowed and nodded before stepping out the shower stall.

A cottony towel flew over his body as John rubbed himself dry and slung the white fabric around his waist. His hand wiped over the fogged mirror to check his stubble. But he decided that the shave could wait after he ordered breakfast.

When he appeared in the bedroom beyond the thick air of the bathroom gooseflesh rippled over him. He ran a hand through his slicked down hair, leaving it in a disarray of a spiky mess before shuffling to the living room for the phone.

As Sherlock had recommended he ordered a hearty breakfast. They would be low on time to wine and dine for lunch since the polo match started in less than three hours. On the way back to the bathroom, John detected his mobile blinking on the nightstand.

“Two missed calls,” he mumbled and frowned at his sister’s number. After his decision yesterday, the news seemed to have finally reached her. John contemplated if he could ignore her calls just a little longer, but as the co-owner of their company she had a right to know what happened.

“Hello Harry,” he sighed, biting the bullet after dialing her number.

“Jesus fucking Christ! John, I tried to call you.” A coarse voice rasped through the receiver, high-pitched with annoyance. She might have been drunk last night, but several calls in the morning sobered her up and left her throat dry.

“Yeah, I was in the shower.”

“What? For forty minutes?”

“I relish my morning showers.” He shrugged his shoulders, invisible for Harry, but his tone was light with a hint of sardonic mirth to take the edge of his sister’s imminent rant.

“Don’t you dare ignore me.”

“Isn’t it nice to swallow the same pill you gave me on several occasions?” Anger rose in his chest like a thunderous storm. Harry had more than often ignored him, too drunk to pick up the phone or too lethargic to move. And now that he had made a selfish decision in his life, she accused him of her own flaws.

Against all odds, she didn’t explode on the phone like she tended to when she became the victim of sarcasm. Instead, she lowered her voice, the scratchy tightness in her throat waning. “I just want to know what’s going on, John.”

Her voice back to the rich deep tone, she reminded him of their childhood. It had always provided a warm and soothing veil like a balm over his oppressed emotions when his father once again chided him for being not what he wanted in a son. Those were good memories from their adolescence he treasured above all – when they ganged up on a common enemy. “I decided the buyout as too risky.”

“But you knew the risk from the beginning.”

“Yes, and I didn’t want to conduct this business originally if my memory serves me right. I didn’t want to strip Dimmock Enterprises clean from everything to get rich at someone else’s expense. That was your decision, Harry. Yours and Kitty Riley’s.”

After a long silence at the other end of the line, she ruefully added, “You should’ve called me before you changed your mind.”

“Yes, I should.” Since both of them owned the company he indeed should have talked about the decision with his sister beforehand. “I’m sorry, Harry. But I won’t do this anymore. I can’t be the executor of your demands. That makes you not one jot better than father. You wanted his company for a diversion from your broken marriage. Yet you can’t distract yourself from you. This is not me, and I don’t want to live this lie anymore.”

“Wilkes said you met someone.”

John scrubbed a hand over his face. His ex-broker hadn’t wasted time to spit his vicious concern right into his sister’s face. “I did.”

“A prostitute?”

“So what? Am I on trial?”

“Of course not. I was surprised when that slimy Wilkes rubbed my nose in the truth. He’s really pissed. But John, you’ve always been quite a flirt. Surely, you’d find some nice woman elsewhere.”

John bit the inside of his cheeks unable to decide between laughing and crying. His sister had already moved out of their parental home when the situation in school escalated and his father threatened to kick him out. John never told her about the incident, ashamed of himself since the whole world treated him with abhorrence. Although his sister made no secret of her sexuality he didn’t want to confide in her since Harry struggled with her own demons as well. “I didn’t want to find some nice _woman_.”

A long silence followed his statement. “Okay.” John sensed his sister stewing over the probable meaning as she hesitated. “Then some _filthy_ woman… God, John I had no idea about your preferences.”

“It’s a _man_ , Harry.”

“Oh!” Even a longer silence followed this time. “Oh my God, I assumed mum was confused when she told me that dad flipped out about your sexual orientation.”

“What do you mean?”

“Before she died she more or less faded in and out of her consciousness. It messed with her memories. She believed that you were homosexual, and I supposed that she mistook you for me.”

“Nope.”

A roaring laughter erupted through the mobile and provoked a melancholy chuckle on John as well. They didn’t need words to elaborate their feelings when John recognized that his father had always fought against his children’s inclinations. Yet he stayed on the losing side. “If he could see us now.”

“Then he’d still be alive, and we’d live a completely different life. I don’t think I’d have found the courage to step out of his looming shadow.”

“That old bugger! You should’ve told me. I have some very nice gay men among my circle of friends.”

This time, John’s laugh shook his body with cordial liveliness. Naturally, his sister would try to play Cupid for her brother. “Thank you, but no thank you. I’m very happy with Sherlock.”

“He’s still with you?” A hint of doubt tinged her voice.

Now it was John who hesitated, all too well aware that Sebastian’s words might have hit home with his sister. “I booked him for the whole week.”

“Then he must be very good at his job,” Harry teased.

“He’s even better since he’s more than just a prostitute. Without him, I wouldn’t have learned that Magnussen is somehow involved with Dimmock Junior.”

“Yeah, Wilkes told me about it,” John could literally hear her frown at the other end of the line. “He accused you of withdrawing your offer just because some _slut_ told you about a probable involvement of Magnussen. However he got that little detail.”

John caught the wariness in the hidden question and knew that Wilkes had succeeded in poisoning her thoughts. “I’d say he’s a genius. He uses deductions to read people’s history. Harold Dimmock Junior had a business card from Magnussen in his wallet. Sherlock saw it when Dimmock insisted on paying his drink. And since we can’t feel certain if he’s behind the third stockholder, I decided to withdraw from the deal.”

“So you’ll strike camp and come home?”

“I’ve planned to stay the whole week and I will. We’re going to attend the polo match as scheduled.”

“We?”

The question took John off-guard. He had no reason to bring Sherlock along whatsoever. His deductive skills wouldn’t be necessary anymore. “Greg will be there and I don’t want to miss the chance to meet him since we seldom find the time. I don’t want Sherlock to be left behind in the hotel.”

“Bloody hell!” Incredulity seeped through Harry’s voice. “There’s more behind it, isn’t it?”

“Because I enjoy his company?”

“Shall I give you the definition of a hooker?”

“You fuck and that’s it?” The words left a stale aftertaste in his mouth.

“Yes. If you find enjoyment in him beyond the fucking aspect you’ll cross a certain line to a relationship. Does he approve of that?"

“Might be?”

“John, you’re not an emotional bloke. You found fun in one-nighters, but as soon as it got more serious you stepped from the light amusement to the more guardedly trusted rationality.”

“Maybe you misjudged me.”

“Oh my God,” she all but whispered. “You love him.”

John blushed at the three words, a truth he still struggled to acknowledge because denial was easier to accept. “I’d like to be with him, see where we might end up. He galvanized me, showed me that I can overcome my fears and turn to my old life again where I’m worth being a doctor.”

Another long silence rushed through the receiver as Harry assimilated the information. “So you don’t just want to cancel the deal. You also want to hand in your resignation.”

“If you want to keep the company you’ll be its sole head henceforth. Or we can liquidate it and divide our heritage?”

John heard a rustling through the receiver, indicating Harry’s quirk to comb with her fingers through her long hair when she needed time to think. “Fuck,” she rasped and cleared her voice. “I don’t know, I…”

Empathy surged up in John since he had to make the same decision not so long ago after their father’s death. “Take your time. My flight is scheduled to leave at ten a.m. on Sunday. We’ll speak about it when I’m home.”

“You will?” she asked, doubt painting her question. “Everything sounds like a rash action. Stopping the buyout in the middle of the contract signing, staying with a man you barely know… and by tomorrow, you’ll buy a flat in SoHo?”

To a certain degree, his sister hit the nail on the head. He despised his parental home and the company. It reminded him too often of a life he wanted to avoid at all costs – the very reason he became a doctor save that he also wanted to help people. He wanted to forget about the mortification in his adolescence; his mother starting to drink and dragging his sister along down the vortex of self-harm, the ever looming presence of his father. Yet, he had stumbled back into that old life after Afghanistan since Mary always remained a connection to the company. How could he have refused the firm when his wife was part of the business? She might have lost her job after a liquidation back in those days. Not to mention his sister’s mental state after their father’s death; a mix between depression and euphoria.

So it was highly probable that John would buy a flat in London as soon as possible. He chose to leave his old life behind, and for the first time in ages, he looked forward to facing an unknown future with all its fearsome insecurities. Even if Sherlock wouldn’t become a part of that future John still would distance himself as far as possible from his home. “Maybe not tomorrow.”

A throaty laugh rumbled through the phone once again. “Indeed, it seems I misjudged you. It’s been a long time since we chased ants with a magnifier in the garden. I’m just sorry,” her rolling laughter broke into a sad whisper. “I should’ve been there for you when you needed me most.”

“And what would you have done?”

“Kick the old bastard in his pompous arse and take you with me and Clara.”

“That wouldn’t have helped you overcome your marital difficulties either.”

“Yeah,” she sighed. “But at least, we wouldn’t become so estranged from each other.”

John’s gaze dropped from the vast window front displaying the beauty of his self-chosen new home to the bed. His legs trembled with the effort of supporting his weight at the melancholy truth his sister had pointed out. He sat down on the bed, the sheets rustling softly.

“Probably.” He couldn’t utter any other word as the lump in his throat threatened to choke him.

“You’ll do what you want to do, little brother, and somehow I’ll get along. See you on Sunday.”

The line went silent without her waiting for a response. John dropped his hand, curled his fingers around the mobile in his lap. He felt empty, hollow deep inside. The talk with his sister had been long overdue, and the denouement would have left him devastated either way though it was inevitable. Somehow, he had hoped they would have a row over his decision. Departing from a discussion in anger was easier to bear than sympathy which evoked empathy. His compassion hurt as if he had betrayed his sister.

Over the white noise of his racing mind, he heard Sherlock appearing from the bathroom. In his peripheral view, John saw a white towel wrapped around the man’s waist as he padded to the closet.

Before Sherlock opened the wardrobe door John spoke up absent-mindedly, “Can you imagine that two people related by blood can estrange themselves even though they love each other?”

Sherlock held the doorknob, considering the words for a moment. “Yes.”

At this, John lifted his gaze from the mobile in his lap, a vague smile curling his lips. “Thanks.”

“Are we still attending the polo match or did you change your mind?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“The call made you distraught. It’s understandable to avoid social events in that case.”

“It was my sister,” John waved with the mobile in his hand. “We’ve never been this close besides when I told her about my decision on starting as a doctor again.”

“I see,” Sherlock leaned against the wooden door, uncertainty creeping in his posture as he crossed his arms in a defensive manner. “That’s why I keep myself dissociating from my older brother. A feud makes it easier to protect yourself.”

“But it shouldn’t be like that.”

“Why not?” Sherlock’s mercurial eyes pierced into John. “Because society dictates conventions to us? Why do you think people seek a family of their own once they are old enough to leave their parental home?”

“Says the man who deems sentiment as a chemical defect,” John muttered with no ill intent, but wondered how Sherlock perceived the world – so aloof, yet so sensitive.

“Your sister understands that she would lose you when she defies your decision. So, out of love, she copes with her inner turmoil, and yet keeps a well-established distance for you to take the next step in your life. She has no other choice but accept it.”

John looked at Sherlock for a long moment. Overwhelmed at the man’s deductions, he choked on his own feelings while a hot grip pressed on his chest. “You truly are wasted in your profession.”

The word’s provoked one of those rueful smiles flickering over Sherlock’s face before he turned around to step into the walk-in closet. “Do I really need the suit?” he asked, feigned annoyance painting his baritone.

“Definitely,” John replied with a hint of a grin as the tension alleviated at the change of subject.

***

In the end, Sherlock wore his suit but refused to strangle himself with a tie again. The day had started rainy with a persistent drizzle followed by a fog draping over the city in the early morning hours. But since the gray veil had been lifted the weather brightened up with a last revolt of an Indian summer. Around midday, it was warm enough they could even leave their overcoats at the hotel suite.  

A taxi drove them to the Hurlingham Club westward along the Thames. During their ride, John repeatedly fumbled at the knot of his tie. If not for Greg, he wouldn’t attend the event, donning his self-deceptive persona one last time. His usual armor for eighteen months suddenly seemed too tight, constraining him as he felt the shiny gray fabric around his neck constricting his throat.

“You’ve made it too tight,” Sherlock huffed annoyed beside him. “You’re rattling me.” Harry’s call had set Sherlock’s teeth on edge. The man, usually brimming with restless energy, had become static. His words developed a clipped tone, betraying his current mood.

John looked down at his clothing. He decided to destroy all his suits and ties safe one once he moved to London. “Sorry,” he mumbled, sheepish at his own unnerving behavior which stained Sherlock’s temper.

“For God’s sake, come here.” Sherlock grabbed John’s left shoulder, considerate enough to not inflict pain on the gnarled flesh above his wound by gripping too hard. He loosened the knot to retie it. Along with Sherlock’s ministration, something else within John loosened as well. The gesture unclenched the knot in his stomach and warmth pooled there, pumping hot blood through his body with eternal gratitude. Sherlock might appear aloof, pointing at people to reflect their idiocy, yet, despite his exasperation about John’s clumsiness, he vanquished his inner turmoil and instead took care of John.

“Be careful, or I might become part of your _losing side_.” Before John actually considered the words, they had slipped from his tongue. His eyes widened with shocked apprehension as he realized the meaning, a tingling sensation creeping up his spine in anticipation of an answer.

But Sherlock’s gaze wandered down, eyes lingering on John’s tie. Dark lashes fanned a crescent against the pallor of his cheeks as if he wanted to hide the reflection of his mind behind those half-closed lids. “Don’t get too lost.”

“Why?” John rasped emotion-laden, finally daring to ask and overcoming his fear in want of the truth.

“Because in the end, we’re all going to lose.”

For a second, Sherlock locked his pale blue with John’s stormy eyes before averting his gaze to the outside world. Every time Sherlock spoke about his feelings he repressed them with a negative observation, most certainly coming from his own sad experiences in life. He understood Sherlock’s tacit anxiety of losing someone, be it a loss due to changed circumstances in someone’s life like estrangement from a sibling or due to death. “Then I’d rather lose at some time in my life than never have won.”

Silence draped over them as Sherlock dwelled, his eyes on the window after John’s declaration. In the end, John knew, it was Sherlock’s decision to test those dark waters. Instead of pressing for a response, John slid his hand into Sherlock’s, fingers interlacing and squeezing in reassurance.

***

The estate of the Hurlingham Club held a beautiful property, designed for indulgence and sportive activities. Today’s match represented an exhibition game just for entertainment. Fortunately, the weather permitted the outdoor activity rather than crowding the guests to the clubhouse.

If it hadn’t been for getting information about his buyout he probably wouldn’t have considered attending the match at all. Greg just conceded to come after John told him about the event. “It’s always good to show my face in public once in a while. And if a friend’s coming I’ll only miss the pint.” John had chuckled at Greg’s frank words. How could he turn him down now?

Of course, they didn’t serve beer where the decadents needed to maintain a delicate image. And so they walked the ground with champagne flutes in hands. Now and then, John greeted a familiar face, giggling with Sherlock since he barely remembered a name.

Sherlock’s tension waned, wrapped up in his element, deducing the high society’s hide-and-seek behind bespoke suits and exquisite dresses combined with flamboyant hats. By the time, they arrived at the playing field Sherlock’s dark humor about mankind had infected John, and the melancholy talk from the drive was all but forgotten. The air smelled of horse, a thick musk draping over the green. Thunderous hooves pounded over the turf and let the ground shake.

Sherlock set his glass onto a nearby table and leaned against the balustrade. An audible clack let all the guests’ eyes focus on the white ball as it darted over the field. Riders spurred their horses in its wake. John saw how Harold Dimmock Junior caught up with someone from the other team. For this day, the lawyer had shed his suit for the uniform of a polo rider – a dark green shirt and white trousers combined with black leather riding boots and a black equestrian helmet. He shifted his weight in the saddle to the left and reigned his pony with one hand to push the other player to the side. The mallet wielded in his right hand, using an offside forehand which reaped him an esteeming murmur of the crowd.

“He’s good,” John mumbled and sipped at his champagne.

“He could be better,” Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the rider. “His right shoulder hunches forward too much so that his weight is unbalanced and causes a confusion in the pony now and then.”

John frowned and concentrated for a long moment on Dimmock Junior before observing what Sherlock saw. A small smile curled on his lips that the defense lawyer who tried his best to appear perfect, indeed had his flaws. He didn’t bear the younger Dimmock a grudge, but after his overtly flirtatious demeanor toward Sherlock, a pang of jealousy got stuck with John.

His train of thoughts was interrupted by the arrival of Sebastian Wilkes and Kitty Riley on the other end of the grass field. “Fuck, I forgot those two had been invited along with me.”

“The devastated lawyer and the impertinent broker.”

“I didn’t expect them to come since the deal’s canceled.”

“Oh, this could be fun, John.” The sneer in Sherlock’s voice betrayed the intention of mocking Sebastian’s distaste clearly in his mind.

“I’m not here to let the real fun get tainted,” John said, glowering across the field. At least, Kitty showed the decency to avert her eyes, focusing on the game instead while Sebastian held John’s gaze and scowled back. It still reflected his outrage and disappointment over the lost deal. A prickling sensation crawled up John’s neck and got his hackles up as Sebastian fixed on Sherlock with revulsion. He would love nothing better than to walk over to his ex-broker and wipe this expression off his insolent face.

But again, he was interrupted by an unexpected coincidence.

“Hello John.” At the distinct singsong from behind, he closed his eyes to compose himself for a second.

Before turning around, he took a fortifying breath to meet the all too familiar image of short blond hair and blue eyes. “Hello Mary.”

“Long time no hear!” she chirped, good-natured, but John knew the façade those cheering words actually were.

“There was nothing to hear about.”

“Oh, I’ve heard otherwise.” Her eyes flicked to Sherlock. “And who’s this?”

“This is my new PA.”

“Sherlock Holmes,” he reached out to shake hands.

“Holmes?” Her lips curled at the corners of her mouth, but the smile didn’t reach her eyes. “What a very rare name.”

“I will forward the compliment to my father.” Although Sherlock acted on common courtesy John could tell that he bit his tongue for any further spiteful counter answer.

Mary turned her attention to John again, nearly stepping between both men in an act of ignoring her ex-husband’s new PA. “Seems you did miss me. And I thought after sacking me your advisory board held no vacancy anymore.”

John’s eyes followed her gaze to Sebastian and Kitty who now huddled together talking agitatedly. “Sometimes things change.”

“Do they?” Her smile faltered and her lips pursed.

John sensed the injured pride and jealousy surging up with the question. Their view of his ex-employees was disturbed by a bunch of riders careering by, stirring up some mud in their wake. Mary retreated a step from the balustrade to protect her purple silk dress, clutching the black furred scarf closer. Since she made no move to leave them John was forced to small talk. “And you came alone?”

Her eyes flickered back to Sherlock, sizing him up with contempt, but he gave her no victory by averting his gaze. “No, but he needed to leave already. You’d have been surprised.”

A frown furrowed John’s brows, but Mary stood her ground, not answering his unspoken question until he gave in. “Who?”

“Too obvious,” Sherlock’s baritone cut in between them, sharp like a razor blade. But he didn’t care to elaborate his deduction and enjoyed the irritation in Mary who liked to play the same game with John. 

After a moment, she regained her composure and huffed derisively. “Your _PA_ seems very observant. Maybe he will enlighten you.”

“Sherlock. Mr. Watson.” From behind, they heard a whicker from a pony while Dimmock dismounted the beautiful gray horse, brimming with joy. “It’s great to see you again.”

John looked at the field. People were walking over the green during the halftime. “I wouldn’t have wanted to miss the match.”

Dimmock’s eyes lingered on Sherlock who dug his hands into his trouser pockets before returning to John. “Yeah, I never had the chance to thank you for your _advice_.”

John nodded gratefully. “How is your father?”

“He’s on the mend after all that happened and leaves the socializing to me,” his eyes danced back to Sherlock as he stroked the nostrils of his horse.

“Please present my compliments.”

The younger Dimmock nodded, unclipping the clasp of his helmet. His hair was tousled, damp with sweat as he ran a hand through the spiky mess. Eyes flicked between Mary and John, uncertain about his interruption until he took courage to speak up, “Sherlock, there’s a tradition with Polo where the visitors tramp on the field to fix some chunks of the turf during halftime – the _tread on_. Would you like to join me?”

Inwardly, John fumed at the impertinence of the question, but then he reminded himself that Sherlock was his private assistant in Dimmock’s eyes. Sherlock blinked in confusion, apparently surprised by the flirtatious advances which caused even more jealousy in John. He wanted to reach out and put his hand on the small of Sherlock’s back to send Dimmock off. Yet with Mary’s wary eyes on them, he swallowed his possessiveness and let Sherlock decide the matter.

The man peeled himself from the balustrade. He shot John a quizzical glance that conveyed concern at leaving John alone with his ex-wife as well as the question of leaving his business partner’s side. John ducked his head imperceptibly. He considered that meeting Mary without Sherlock would be the best idea anyway.

Sherlock walked to the end of the grandstand’s balustrade before his new black leather shoes met the well-trimmed turf. Draining the last sip from his champagne, John hid his vexation behind the glass. He watched Sherlock trudging side by side with Dimmock, stomping now and then on the green to even out the field again. His teeth gritted at the thought that by now he knew Sherlock better than to assume the man took delight in treading on the turf. He rather regarded such traditional actions as banal or dull. Yet, the man surprised John with his tenderness toward the horse. While his hands ran appreciatively over the short-cropped mane, a genuine smile conjured on Sherlock’s face.

Warmth pooled in John’s stomach at the sight while thorny tendrils coiled up his spine with poisonous jealousy as Sherlock retreated with Dimmock to the other side of the playing field. Mary stepped into his peripheral view, bracing one elbow on the balustrade like Sherlock had just a few minutes ago. She watched him with amused eyes, and John pondered if he ever was jealous with her. Even when she took the money from their private account and met Magnussen more than necessary John didn’t feel jealous, betrayed and suspicious, yes, but never jealous.

With regard to his childhood and adolescence, it was hardly surprising he developed trust issues. His father had mentally abused him, stripped him of an identity while his mother started to drink. She used the numbing effect of the alcohol to compensate for her loneliness when her husband deemed the business more important than her. John had met several women throughout his life, but never sensed the emotional gravity pulling at him to cause jealousy at some point. Although he loved Mary once, the emotion never exceeded the degree of protectiveness. His ex-wife could be very patronizing, a trait which surfaced when she tended to him after Afghanistan. She became a stable constant in those days, making decisions for him he couldn’t make due to the paralyzing effect of his posttraumatic stress disorder. He was glad because without her he didn’t want to follow the line of thought of where he would have ended. For the first time, she showed her dominant persona. On the mend, he even appreciated it back then. But when he took over his father’s company, she didn’t want to cope with playing a minor role. John had accepted her like that. Yet, with each passing day, his hard-earned trust slipped gradually and took a small part of his love for her with it.

_Probably I never felt jealousy with her since she never truly saw me._

John tore his gaze from Sherlock following Dimmock to the other ponies. He realized, regardless of whether Sherlock would be a man or a woman, he would have fallen in love with him since the man was the first person who truly _saw_ him. John had never felt this way before. Romantic and emotional advances had always been something he denied himself, inflicted by his parents’ inability to love. John now understood that love cut both ways – there existed no love without jealousy. It evoked a protectiveness for Sherlock, to shelter him from the world, but also to trust him. And that trust conveyed hurt.

“Did it occur to you that he might be cheating on you?” Mary’s voice sounded bittersweet with cynicism.

Since John introduced Sherlock as his PA every other inference built upon her own assumption. He searched her cool blue eyes for the answer but decided not to jump on her bait. “I trust him.”

“Do you?” Mary knew him too well. She portrayed the betrayal herself, cutting deep wounds into his trust. “Well, it seems your rival is pretty interested in your PA.”

“So what? Isn’t he allowed to speak to other businessmen?”

“Wasn’t that the reason you left me?”

John clenched his jaw and his eyes flicked to Sherlock talking to Dimmock while he showed him his second pony for the next chukka. “Dimmock isn’t a rival.”

“I see,” she pursed her lips before they stretched into a smirk. “At least not businesswise anymore.”

His brows furrowed over her knowledge on the canceled buyout. “How would you know?”

“Oh, I know a good deal more than you. As usual.” John’s mind started to race, trying to figure out how his ex-wife learned about the buyout if no one had pointed her in the right direction. His eyes snapped to Kitty, now standing alone at the other end of the balustrade. “Wrong. Kitty Riley might be clever enough to get through the law studies, but she doesn’t have the sense for the business.”

John’s gaze flickered back to Sherlock, and for a split-second Mary’s venomous implication hit home. No. That couldn’t be true. It was just her intention to cast doubt. “The third stockholder,” he whispered, bewildered that he never had considered Mary in this scenario.

“Now we’re getting somewhere.”

“With whom did you come today?” Her initial silence about her company made him all the more suspicious.

Her features hardened menacingly, but her eyes danced with devilish glee. “Charles Augustus Magnussen.”

So her betrayal indeed exceeded their business level, John concluded. His suspicion on his ex-wife having an affair with the media mogul also seemed correct. “Is that your kind of revenge?” he all but snarled.

“Oh no, John. You think this is about _you_?” she scoffed. “You’re so very unimportant to him. Dimmock’s just a stopover for far greater achievements.” Of course, she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of elaborating Magnussen’s purpose. “Your intervention in helping him with the waste processing licenses at his shipyard didn’t save the old man. It just prolonged his suffering.”

John stared at the younger Dimmock who secured the straps of his saddle. His jealousy vanished and sympathy for his family took its place instead. “He dealt with the devil,” John said absent-mindedly, trying to grasp Magnussen’s _greater achievement_ since neither John nor Dimmock were his principal object.

“And he lost.” Mary reached for a champagne flute as a waiter walked by with a tray. Before she sipped at the glass she added, “He just doesn’t know yet.”

John understood that even if he were to warn Dimmock’s father he wouldn’t have the assets to fight Magnussen. Mary was right, and if John kept his share on Dimmock Enterprises the buyout would have a major impact on John’s assets as well. He had planned to sell them back to Dimmock at face value. But with that information now, he needed to vend them as soon as possible. Was that Mary’s intention? Did she truly want to warn her ex-husband?

In her purse, her mobile started to chime and interrupted their conversation. She set the champagne flute onto the nearby table and looked at the display. Her smug smile faded at the number. “Well,” she sighed, exaggerated. “Duty calls.”

John turned back to the balustrade as Mary put the phone to her ear, not deigning to look at John once again before she left. He looked unfocused on the field where several guests still hopped and tread on the turf as in a comical act. His gaze dragged to Sherlock like a magnetic pull, a fresh pang of jealousy tightening his stomach in knots after Mary’s abrupt departure. Thoughts of what she had revealed swirled in his mind. A tenacious nagging mingled with Sherlock’s warning about Magnussen, and yet she denied that the media mogul was interested in John’s company.

John’s eyes lingered on Dimmock. A saddened concern made him regret his jealousy since his father’s company would soon be ripped apart, unable to prevent it. After the match, John decided, he would take courage and tell the younger Dimmock about his father’s business fate.

“Dr. John Watson,” boomed a friendly rumble behind him and yanked him from his somber contemplation.

“Greg,” a smile brightened his face as he turned around to meet the Commissioner of Police of the Metropolis.

Greg gave John a bear hug. One of the reasons John liked the former detective inspector was his hearty manners in a society where people regarded such demeanor as affronting. When the man with his pepper and salt hair released John he took a step back and dug his hands into his trouser pockets. John knew Greg despised wearing suits, but with his new job he had little choice. Yet, he also refrained from binding ties.

“Was that Mary who just scurried past me?” Greg lowered his voice to keep the conversation private.

“Yes,” John sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It seems she came to deliver a message.”

“Shit! You all right?”

“I’m fine, but someone else won’t be.”

“Business stuff?”

“For once, I did the right thing, yet I couldn’t keep a gentleman out of harm’s way.”

“So she’s still into ruining others’ lives?” Greg said, disdainful, and for a second his eyes flashed with his own hurting about his ex-wife’s infidelity. 

“She didn’t ruin mine,” John frowned, actually glad how his life had turned upside down now. If she hadn’t taken the money he would have never met Sherlock. He shook his head, “This is about Charles Augustus Magnussen absorbing a friend’s company.”

“Magnussen?” Incredulity resonated with Greg’s voice. He knew about John’s suspicion of Mary having an affair with the media mogul. But since the incident that prompted the divorce, they were never seen in public together again. Magnussen attracted a lot of public attention. It would have been certainly an image damage to have a fling with an ex-wife who had stolen money from her husband.

“Yep,” John responded with a lightness which conveyed his sarcasm. He got over the point of being hurt that his ex-wife might have fucked Magnussen, but her initial betrayal by taking their private money left deeper wounds. And now, she even revealed that she worked with the man to take over Dimmock Enterprises using John’s company to accomplish his object. She wouldn’t stop at nothing which made her betrayal even more stinging.

“John,” Greg began, hesitant. “There’s something you should know about that bloke to not get involved with him whatever happens. I tell you this as a friend since it’s a confidential matter because the MET can’t hold anything against him. You heard what happened to Lord Smallwood?”

John furled his brows as he rummaged his memories on reading morning newspapers. “Didn’t he commit suicide?”

“Yes. We investigated the allegations of blackmailing since Lady Smallwood claimed as much, but we found no proof that Magnussen might have driven Lord Smallwood to suicide.”

John’s mind raced as he remembered Sherlock’s warning about Magnussen blackmailing people to get what he wanted. Swallowing other people’s companies with no remorse was one thing, but ruining people for his profit and using their darkest secrets to possibly drive them to suicide was another thing. “Thanks, Greg. A friend already warned me about his shady practices.”

“A friend?” Greg arched his brows in good-humored astonishment. He knew John too well by now as to see his friend easily overcome his trust issues.

When Greg’s tension about Mary and Magnussen slipped John relaxed, too, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips. He pointed his finger at the far end of the other side of the playing field where Sherlock stood with his back to them. The man held the reins and stroked soft nostrils while Dimmock cleaned the pony’s hooves. “I met him the night you practically forced me to take your Jag.”

Greg huffed a warm laugh and rubbed a hand over his neck, self-consciousness blushing his ears. “Yeah, I remember,” he said and looked over his shoulder. “Might I introduce you Molly Hooper?”

He reached for a young woman standing a bit apart from them, a shy smile crossing her lips. “Hello.”

“Oh wow, hi,” John said, embarrassed about his comment as if he might have spilled a secret plan. “I’m John Watson.”

“Seems, that night, my plan ensured that we both came out of a good deal.” Greg poked his friend good-naturedly at his ribs and caused a giggle from Molly.

Relief draped over John that the young woman with her ponytail shared their sense of humor. Molly appeared natural and not like most of the hypocritical superficiality of the upper class hidden behind beautiful dresses and suits. “Nice to meet you.”

“Molly works at Bart’s,” Greg explained, giving John the opportunity to connect with her through his Alma Mater.

“Nurse or doctor?” John asked.

“Neither,” she replied. “I’m working at the pathology in the morgue. No one’s to save there but to find forensic proves on dead bodies.”

A vague smile flicked over John’s lips, “You’d get swimmingly along with my friend.”

“Is he your boyfriend?” Molly all but blurted and realized the same second her blunt slip. “I… um… I didn’t mean…”

But John preserved her dignity by replying, “No, he’s not my boyfriend… not yet.” He allowed his eyes to dance with insinuation, yet in his peripheral view, he perceived Greg shifting his weight. At once, a knot tightened his stomach that John’s declaration might pose a problem to his friend.

A friendly slap on his shoulder tore John from his worries. “It’s great for you to come out of your self-inflicted shell.” Greg withdrew his hand again and turned to Molly, “He’s actually a doctor. Trained at Bart’s. But then he decided on the shark tank and became a rainmaker in real estate.”

John huffed a warm laugh at the exaggeration. “Not anymore. I’m tired of all the sharks. Either Harry will take over or I’ll liquidate the company.”

Small crinkles creased around Greg’s eyes with an approving smile. “Better late than never! A friend, a new job – what happened?”

John looked once again across the field. His heart pounded in sweet agony of between appreciation and fear. “ _Shezza_ happened.”

“You could start at Bart’s again?” Molly interrupted their companionable silence after a moment. Although she seemed to be a clever young woman she tended to always finish suggestions with a question.

“I’d rather spend the money from the liquidation to establish my own surgery.” He didn’t want to work as a surgeon anymore. The war had taken its toll too much than to be able to suppress those dark memories which still haunted his nightmares now and then.

A whicker drew their attention to the turf where the players assembled for the next chukka. “Sounds like a solid plan,” Greg said, a grin curling his lips. “I hope you’ll spare more time on a pint then. You decided on London, I take it.”

“Definitely London,” John returned the smirk when two ponies careered past the balustrade with thunderous hooves. “And definitely more time for a pint or two.”

A warm, fuzzy feeling settled in John’s stomach at the thought of working and living in London again, meeting with friends and going home after work to find Sherlock sprawled on a sofa. Maybe sometimes, they might even investigate a case together. The reveries let his gaze drag once again to the other side of the field. But where Dimmock and Sherlock tended the horses mere minutes ago, the place was empty now.

John’s eyes flicked from one side of the balustrade to the other side, hoping that Sherlock was rounding the white wall to return to him. But there was no trace of him. For a second, panic fueled John’s thinking into a rush of possibilities, all resulting in betrayal – a persistent remnant of his trust issues.

They watched the game for a moment while John’s searching eyes roved over the crowd along the balustrade in the hope to find the dark mob of curls. The man with his angular features should be quite outstanding within tamed hairstyles and hats, but John didn’t detect him anywhere near around the playing field.

Notions of bygone but never forgotten lies whirled in his mind, playing tricks with him. It pressed cold on his chest, the air in his lungs thick and sluggish, making him choke on his own anxiety. One more time his gaze swept over the people, but Sherlock seemed like fallen off the face of the earth.

John looked toward the clubhouse, coaxing his mind into a rational explanation. _He probably headed for the loo._

He bit the inside of his cheeks to calm his thunderous heart. Nausea clenched his stomach, and John forced himself to take deep breaths. He waited a few minutes for Sherlock to show up again, but when the man ceased to reappear John decided for a visit as well.

“If you excuse me,” his eyes flicked between Greg and Molly, hoping to keep his concern under control in front of his friend.

Greg nodded, and John left the grandstand, focusing on an unruffled walk so as to not dart for the path leading to the clubhouse. He passed the pony lines, recognizing Dimmock’s gray horse from the first four chukkas. Coming from the direction of the Broomhouse Gate, John crossed the Four In Hand Yard and entered the columned entrance of the neoclassic white mansion. A few guests in sportswear for tennis and croquet walked through the richly decorated lobby, but overall the clubhouse was rather abandoned for the bright weather.

John proceeded to the staircase that led downstairs to the gents’ toilet. He took a deep breath before reaching for the gilded handle, bracing himself for the possibility to not find Sherlock in there. What would he do then?

His doubt resolved when he caught the deep baritone rumbling behind the door… along with someone else’s voice – a very familiar voice dripping with smugness. “Why not? Fucking you after Watson’s done with you secures your income.”

“Piss off!” After the angry hiss, John heard a thudding sound accompanied by the slap of skin on skin and he all but tore open the door.

Sebastian Wilkes stood in front of the black marbled sinks, holding his cheek, before he lunged out for a counterpunch. Sherlock, with his back against the navy blue tiles, tried to avoid the blow but was too cornered between wall and sinks. Wilkes’ fist landed on Sherlock’s cheekbone, left it in an angry red with a bit of breached skin.

When Sebastian reached back for another blow John’s strong hand curled around the outraged fist. He twisted Wilkes’ hand into a painful angle while stepping in-between both men and landed a choking punch on his ex-broker’s sternum. The stroke caused the man to cough, pressing all the air out of his lungs. He tried to yell after sucking the much-needed oxygen in but was only capable of a mere wheezing.

John held the man in place, waiting for him to regain his composure insofar as John would allow. He sensed the tendons and bones crunching beneath his vise-like grip. With the barest of his strength, he could bend the wrist’s angle into the impossible and let the bones snap.

“Fuck you, Watson! He’s just a fucking whore!”

John chuckled at the lame attempt of sounding menacing while Wilkes’ merely whined the curse. He grabbed with his free hand the lapel of Wilkes’ suit jacket together with the man’s tie and yanked him around to crash his face against the other wall. Blood smeared along the shiny dark tiles where his eyebrow banged against the wall. Due to the impact, the skin had split open.

The man’s other arm still in John’s grip was yanked back, so he couldn’t escape the bodily imprisonment. John leaned closer, crushing his elbow between Wilkes’ shoulder blades to evoke another whimper of pain. Voice composed and calm despite the raging storm inside, John conveyed an attention-provoking threat that caused Wilkes to still. “I’m glad you just reminded me of why I ended our business relation, Mr. Wilkes. Let me remind you of something – something I used to know: how to inflict the most excruciating pain without actually breaking one bloody bone in your body. If you ever have the itch to fuck with me or Sherlock like this again you will regret it.” He released his grip from the man’s wrist and stepped back. “And now fuck off!”

Wilkes didn’t turn to look at them. He held his hand and carefully angled his wrist before trudging to the door. John kept his stormy blue stare at the tiles where blood proved his rage. When the door clicked shut again his adrenaline ceased. Shocked and empty of any emotion, he floated in a riptide where violent waves had surged up such an outburst. Blood rushed in his ears, pounding in a slowly flagging rhythm.

A whisper of clothes behind him ripped him from his momentary paralysis and reminded him of his surroundings. Abruptly, he turned around to face Sherlock who held his hand, fingers brushing over reddened knuckles. John closed the gap between them and reached for Sherlock’s hand. Gently, he stroked over each knuckle to palpate for any fractures, but everything seemed fine.

“You hit the bastard?” John murmured, pride tinging his voice as his gaze lifted to examine the breached skin on Sherlock’s cheekbone.

“Forgot to put my thumb out of the fist. The joint is hurting a bit.”

John traced a gingerly finger over the reddened skin which would bloom into purple by evening. “Nothing’s broken as far as I can see. How do you feel?”

“Perfect, John,” Sherlock sneered which took John aback as Sherlock’s anger was directed at him. “I was just sexually assaulted by your ex-broker who deemed me worthy enough of his cock to pay me. How do you think I would feel?”

“What?”

“He expected for me to provide my _services_ to everyone which makes me a sex object to grope my crotch without consent in public conveniences.”

For a second, John saw red. If he would have known that Sebastian had touched Sherlock that way the man would have more than a sprained wrist and a breached eyebrow by now. “I’m so sorry…” he said lost for words.

“Yes. This time, you should,” Sherlock seethed. “How dare you telling him about my profession? I’m not an object to share.”

“I didn’t tell him,” John defended himself. He had never assumed that Wilkes’ pride was so hurt as to cross the line. “I told Ms. Riley though.”

“And you think that’s better?” Sherlock’s anger abated while hurt fogged his eyes. He pushed past John to throw some cold water in his face.

“I told her because she thought you might have been a spy sent by Dimmock.”

Sherlock’s head snapped up and he glared at John through the mirror above the sink. “A spy sent by Dimmock?” he reiterated with derision.

“Ridiculous, I know.” John shrugged his shoulders helplessly. “The thing with Ms. Riley is once she’s put her mind on something she’s like a bloodhound and wouldn’t stop prying. So I decided to tell her the truth.”

For a long moment, Sherlock stared at John. His ever-shifting eyes clouded in shadowy gray, not quite disclosing Sherlock’s thoughts. A mix of hurt emotions and uncertainty flared up before he closed them. He took a fortifying breath before he said, “I want to leave. Take me to the hotel.”

***

The taxi weaved its way through the thickening traffic of the afternoon, and the ride seemed to last an eternity. John fidgeted in his seat, loosening the knot of his tie to let the ends hang in disarray. He didn’t care what he looked like. All he wanted to know was what Sherlock would do once they arrived at the hotel. He shot him surreptitious glances, but the man remained illegible to him. Anger, annoyance, acrimony – he could deal with those emotions, but not with the hurt mirroring in Sherlock’s ethereal eyes.

John cursed at himself under his breath for telling Kitty the truth. All the time he had lied about his self-being. But when it came to the one time in his life where he should have better shut his mouth, he told a truth. His hands curled into tight fists, angry nails digging into his palms. He wished to breach the skin, hurt himself like he had hurt Sherlock. His outrage, neither directed at Kitty nor Sebastian anymore, shifted into loath directed at himself. It was his own mistake. People always confronted him with his trust issues. He should have known better than to tell his lawyer his secret.

“Will you leave now?” he whispered, fear and insecurity taking the strength from his voice. The picture of an empty hotel suite popped into his mind and pressed like a deadweight on his chest, nearly choking him.

Despite John’s obvious distress, Sherlock gave him the silent treatment for a while before taking an exasperated breath. “I’m considering it.” The usually rich baritone turned into a monotone string of words. “But I’m not so sure if that’d be a good idea now.”

A small flicker of hope sparked in the clouded darkness of John’s mind. But then he realized that Sherlock might only stay with him because of John’s inner turmoil. He had been diagnosed with posttraumatic stress disorder, but he wasn’t suicidal. “I’m a grown man, Sherlock. I made a mistake and now I must live with the consequences. Pity’s nothing I ever want.”

Sherlock scoffed an ugly lopsided smile. “I abhor pity.”

Whereas Sherlock’s ambiguity on flirtatious innuendos conjured a pleasant tickling, his vague equivocation by leaving out crucial information evoked a cold feeling. An oppressive sensation draped over his body of not knowing what the man meant to say.

And John was simply too afraid as to ask.

Thirty minutes later, they arrived at the Shangri-La. While John paid the cabbie Sherlock already darted for the glass entrance door. John tried to keep pace, but Sherlock walked with long strides through the foyer. He had dug his hands in the trouser pockets and cast down his eyes to the floor, shutting out the world as he reached for the button next to the lift.

Ignoring the front desk, John followed at a military pace to catch up as if the man might outrun him in a hotel. Aggravated by a subtle twinge in his leg, he even started to limp. “Fuck those playing tricks in my bloody mind,” he murmured under his breath.

John started as Mr. Stamford suddenly stepped in front of him. “Good evening, Dr. Watson. Excuse me for interrupting, but a gentleman insisted on giving this letter to you as soon as you would arrive.”

John looked at the white paper in Mr. Stamford’s hand. Suspicion crept into his mind as he took the large envelope, flipping it over to see if the sender left their address. But it was empty beside John’s name written in blue italics with a fountain pen. Absent-mindedly, John knitted his brows and nodded. “Thanks.”

He kept his gaze on the paper while his legs moved on his own, carrying him to the lift where Sherlock had waited instead of taking the escape route. The man craned his neck to glimpse the target of John’s frown. “A woman’s writing.”

“What?” John tore his eyes from the paper, confused about Sherlock’s deduction.

“This was written by a woman. Graphology can tell you many things.”

John’s wavering stare returned to the envelope. He knew exactly who had written the letter. “It’s actually Mary’s writing.”

_Duty calls_.

The lift chimed and mingled with the memory of his ex-wife’s distinctive singsong. Sherlock’s glance roved over the foyer. He scanned the room for any suspicious details before ushering John into the cage. Once the doors slid shut John ripped the envelope open to produce a thick pile of papers neatly placed into a folder. He skimmed the first pages, holding his breath. His eyes flew over lines and paragraphs of a legal contract. “I don’t understand.”

John’s eyes had narrowed in disbelief and horror. The events based on the content of this contract hadn’t occurred yet.

“Can I see?” Sherlock’s baritone sounded soothing like a warm veil draping over him in protection. His concern conveyed a sudden contrast to his earlier anger and hurt.

John nodded and handed him the document. “If I understand it correctly this contract states that Mary will be the new owner of my company.”

Sherlock’s eyes raced over the pages in flash speed before the lift chimed again to announce their arrival at the thirty-seventh floor. The man stepped in-between the doors to prevent them sliding closed. He also stopped John from leaving the cage. “It’s a mocking gesture,” Sherlock mumbled, his gaze still roving over the paper. “A warning to tell you of what will come. Apparently, your ex-wife is the third stockholder involved in Dimmock’s buyout.”

John scrubbed a hand over his face. “But she said she wasn’t interested in my company.” However, as soon as John finished the sentence his lips formed a silent _Oh!_ “No, that’s wrong. She avoided my question about her revenge by replying that I’m just unimportant to Magnussen.”

“Which doesn’t imply _she_ has no interest in your company.”

“And Magnussen is loaning her the money for a leveraged buyout. He wants Dimmock Enterprises, but Mary told me that Dimmock is just another stopover.”

“Due to the bank loan for the shares you already bought, your assets are bound to the contract. If your ex-wife gets the majority of the shares she’ll be the new owner of Dimmock Enterprises. The stocks you’re holding can’t be sold so soon. So if she decides to dismantle Dimmock’s company your share will plummet and you’ll lose a lot of money. In that case, the bank will want their money back. They can nullify the contract and if you can’t pay back Magnussen will be just around the corner to take whatever is left of your company and give it to Mary.”

John’s eyes widened as realization settled in while Sherlock’s mercurial gaze bored into cobalt blue, almost pleadingly. “But this hasn’t happened yet.”

“It will,” a shimmer of regret melded with empathy in the baritone. “Magnussen always gets what he wants. The question is why is he helping your ex-wife?”

“They’re having an affair,” now John was convinced of his former allegation.

“No,” Sherlock gave John the folder back and ran steepled fingers along his lips. “Magnussen is too cautious as to make himself vulnerable to the public. No, he wants something from her. They have a deal. He’ll give her your company and in return, she has something for him. But what?”

John stared, unfocused with empty eyes. “I have no idea.”

“If we find this out it’ll be the key to saving your company.”

At last, the man stepped over the threshold on the soft carpet of the corridor. John followed, brows furled into a deep frown. His mind felt muffled, even though he wasn’t that worried about his firm but the deviousness with which Mary had deceived him. Once again, she had betrayed him. And to make him suffer, she even sent him this letter as a mock-warning. Anger let his fist clench, crumpling the contract at its edges.

Before he produced the keycard to open his hotel suite, he bumped into Sherlock in front of him who came to a sudden halt. “Someone’s in there.”

The man stepped aside for John to see that the door to the suite was ajar. “Who can open a door to which I have the only keycard?” John murmured, incredulous, albeit his consciousness already awaited a rapid-fire brilliant deduction. But Sherlock failed to reply, his lips pressed to a thin line and the corners tilted downward. He left John no other choice than to reach for his mobile ready to dial the police before warily opening the door.

The straight view to the living room from the entrance disclosed three men in bespoke suits sitting on the ocher-colored sofa and armchair.

“No need to call the police, Dr. Watson.” A lanky man with thinning gray-blond hair and an accent spoke up when John’s shoes clicked on the marbled floor of the hallway. “We are just enjoying the view.”

Charles Augustus Magnussen stood up and stroked invisible creases from his black suit jacket before he looked up. Cold blue eyes met John’s glare as he dug his hands into his trouser pockets. A smug smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, revealing the ugliness of this nonchalant misanthrope.

John took a steadying breath, shooting the other two men cautious glances. There was still enough adrenaline in his body to lunge out for the tall man and show him his place; which would be outside his hotel suite. But with those two bodyguards, it might not turn out well. So he bit the inside of his cheeks and smiled with a contorted snarl. “You could have met me at the Hurlingham Club along with my ex-wife. That would have been quite a view as well and saved you the trouble of coming here.”

Magnussen’s eyes danced with grim mirth which sent cold shivers down John’s spine. “Oh, I’m not here for _you_.” He let the words hover between them, amusing himself at John’s expense who curled his hands into tight fists, the paper rustling in a rage. “You see, Mr. Holmes here failed to report in to me.”

With a sudden yank, John felt as if the rug was pulled out from under his feet. A vortex gaped before him and dragged relentlessly with blinding vertigo. “What?”

The media mogul looked past John to Sherlock, ignoring John’s cluelessness. “You breached our contract, Mr. Holmes. We agreed on daily reports about the current state of Dr. Watson’s striven buyout on Dimmock Enterprises. And now I have to learn from a third party that the deal has been canceled.”

With a snap of his head, John turned around to seek those usually sharp eyes, but Sherlock kept his gaze down, denying John the truth. “You work for Magnussen?”

When Sherlock didn’t reply Magnussen huffed a sardonic laugh. “Now. Isn’t that funny. How the predator just became the damsel in distress.” He didn’t elaborate which role would fit with whom. Through a gesture of his hand, Magnussen implied for his bodyguards to depart. “Mr. Holmes, you may fetch your belongings before we go.”

Wordless, Sherlock stepped around John and headed for the bedroom to pick up his duffel bag. John’s mind raced, desperate to knit all the hints and warnings together, yet he couldn’t grasp what was happening right now. Nausea settled in his stomach while his head swam in blankness.

When Sherlock reappeared in the corridor he had changed his clothes. Instead of the suit, he wore his torn jeans and scruffy shirt. He slipped into his leather boots, now completely stripped off his persona John had helped to create. Without another word nor glance, Sherlock grabbed the strap of his bag and left the suite with a ducked head followed by two bodyguards.

“It was a pleasure to finally meet you, Dr. Watson,” Magnussen said, leaning closer to overcome their height difference. “Enjoy the conveniences while you still can.”

After straightening again to leave as well he left a foul air, fueling John’s bile which rose in his throat, threatening to choke him.

Unfocused, John looked with an empty stare at Sherlock’s battleground – all alone with his screaming mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I’m on holiday by end of June and there’ll be no Wi-Fi at my place I cannot promise if I can update before the beginning of July. But I’ll try. 
> 
> If you want to catch up with me you’ll also find me on [Tumblr](http://nymeria578.tumblr.com/).


	8. Deception

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, it’s been a bit over a month since my last update, and I’m so sorry for the wait. Unfortunately, my dear friend and beta [GhostTari](http://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostTari/pseuds/GhostTari) had some computer issues so that she couldn’t proofread for a while, but got it finished in flash speed. If you still find some mistakes I’ll take the blame.
> 
> Also, you might’ve noticed a change in the tags. Without giving too much away, I decided to adjust them due to potential triggers. This was a difficult decision since I usually don’t pay too much attention to tags as a reader. I did it as a precaution. There won’t be an ‘actual’ rape, but it’s definitely non-con (of course not between our besotted idiots).
> 
> And as always thanks for all the kudos and lovely comments! They’re making my day :)

Music had always been an important part of his life. The gentle notes of Mozart's Violin Concerto No. 5 had, more often than not, soothed his ever-racing mind into a sea of tranquility; whereas the stormy cadence of Vivaldi's Winter aroused enthusiasm within him when he needed to come out of his lethargy. A dark emotional stupor induced by society’s conventions caused him to seclude himself in his mind over and over again. In those days, his psyche was a fragile, delicate construct only to be muffled by cocaine. But wandering the halls of his muddled mind, music remained a constant component to drag him back to reality.

He saw nothing more than melodious harmony in the string of notes while dragging horsehair over catgut. Compositions were played according to their master’s wish. He never considered them to be more than a tune, never considered their composer’s emotional state conveyed through the rhythm. Except for the day when John Watson looked at Sherlock with rapt eyes as he coaxed music from his stunned mind. A song, played in his palace behind closed doors for a long time, awaiting the one moment in his life to free the jumbled melody.

And now, flicking his wrist as he gazed down on Baker Street, he tried to find the notes again. But after relieving the long-captured music, it now seemed lost. He had bestowed his own emotional composition to John, laid bare his feelings only for that specific moment.

_It will never come back._

His inner voice sounded forlorn and angry. Forlorn, for he would never find the notes again since they were imprinted in John’s heart, and angry because of his deception.

He would never forget John’s eyes at the moment of his betrayal, full of disbelief even in the face of an undeniable truth. But how could he explain himself to John with Magnussen breathing down his neck?

Once he had reappeared from the bedroom, changed into his old clothes, Sherlock observed the hurt in John’s absent-minded gaze. Under the guise of ragged jeans and his threadbare leather jacket, he disclosed to John his deception by denying the exquisite gift. Sherlock decided to leave the suit behind since, first, he didn’t want a reminiscence of his sham. And second, he couldn’t accept such an expensive present when he knew that he earned it by half-truths. His own closet contained enough two-piece suits, not so expensive, though. However, taking it along felt inappropriate. John should have decided what to do with the clothes.

But at the moment of his emotional turmoil, Sherlock completely forgot that two more suits would arrive at Baker Street two weeks later. All the more he looked surprised when his doorbell rang to receive a large package with those ordered suits. An initial question popped into his mind why John hadn’t canceled the order. He frowned at the fabric wrapped in suit bags. What should he do with them now?

After a moment of staring at them, he turned around, trying to shut out the reminder of his betrayal. He walked to the large window in the living room and pulled the curtains aside. Flakes of snow-like dust whirled up, danced around him as the morning sun peeked through the gap. Sherlock grabbed his violin in the vain attempt to ease his mind with the soothing tune of Mozart. But he found himself time and again in search of John’s song.

The suits, now spread out on his bed, mocked him and played with his concentration. Annoyance cut through him, pressed relentlessly at his heart to leave a cold emptiness. Since when did he allow such sentiment interfering with his mind?

John made it very clear what he wanted. _Fuck off!!_

The day, Magnussen drove him back to 221B, Sherlock dialed his number, yet John didn’t respond to his several attempts at explaining himself. Not until John switched off his mobile did Sherlock stop calling him.

Two days later, Sherlock read in the newspapers about the buyout Magnussen had conducted. As he skimmed the lines John’s name was mentioned since he held a great share of the stocks. According to the interview, Magnussen pointed out he wanted to sell the company on to Mary Morstan who would dismantle the firm. Once again reminded of John, he tried to reach him through the Shangri-La, but of course he had checked out the day before. However, the gentle voice of Mr. Stamford encouraged him to try John’s mobile number one last time.

Although the signal implied the call setup it was ended before Sherlock could speak up. It took mere seconds for his mobile to buzz with an incoming message.

_Fuck off!!_

The ringing of the doorbell ripped him once again from his gloomy memories. Since Magnussen accompanied him to 221B his heart sagged with the fear that the media mogul might drop by with a new task. Due to Sherlock’s failed attempt to accomplish his former job the lanky man had promised a future assignment which hung over his head now like Damocles’ sword _._

_I will be back very soon_. Magnussen had leaned so close as to deliberately intrude Sherlock’s personal space. His words conveyed all meanings of a threat. And Sherlock knew that Magnussen never made idle threats.

But once he distinguished the familiar taps of an umbrella on the wooden floorboards of the seventeen steps to his flat, he knew that today wouldn’t be the day the media mogul came.

“Hello, Sherlock.”

Putting down his violin into its case, he moved with deliberate consciousness to sort his thoughts. “Dear brother,” he drawled as he turned to face Mycroft. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Since his homecoming from the Shangri-La, his older brother paid frequent visits to see if his younger brother was keeping well. After Sherlock dropped off the radar for Mycroft, the man with the minor position in the British government pulled out all the stops to find his baby brother. Despite their little feud, the older Holmes worried about Sherlock more often than not, albeit the younger Holmes ignored such endearing demeanor. Too often, Sherlock had vanished just to be found by Mycroft in a drug den several days later. When Sherlock disappeared now he had but one assumption and hoped his brother wouldn’t have fallen for cocaine again.

How wrong he was – at least this time.

“Am I not allowed to visit you?” Mycroft’s voice was tinged with feigned affront.

“You could always call?”

The older Holmes chuckled darkly at the suggestion. “And you would have ignored me. As always.”

“I was on a case,” Sherlock rolled his eyes, justifying his disappearance a couple of weeks ago.

“A case involving Charles Augustus Magnussen?” Mycroft raised a skeptical eyebrow and pressed his mouth to a thin line of disapproval. His eyes lingered on the fading bloom of purple shades which painted Sherlock’s cheekbone the last weeks. He walked over to the old upholstered armchair to take a seat since his host failed to offer one.

“It’s none of your business,” Sherlock said pointedly. To avoid touching the outraged reminder of Sebastian Wilkes, he strode to the kitchen to flick the kettle for tea. When he looked past the fridge he realized the open door to his bedroom with his new suits sprawled over his bed. He scurried to the room to close the door as quietly as possible, so that Mycroft wouldn’t recognize his secrecy and come up with unwanted questions.

“When it’s about Magnussen it is my business, Sherlock.” Mycroft looked over his shoulder, trying to reason his brother. “I want you to stay away from him.”

_Too late_.

It had been too late from the day he tried to coax information from Magnussen about the Appledore vaults. When Lady Smallwood commissioned Sherlock to destroy any proof of her husband’s past he jumped at the chance to be the downfall of the criminal media mogul. But he hadn’t expected that Magnussen maintained a mind palace with no actual vaults to prove his blackmail. By stealing Mycroft’s laptop in exchange for a glimpse into the vaults, Sherlock had committed high treason, falling prey to Magnussen. He could have called the police, and by betraying his older brother, Sherlock certainly would have gone to prison.

But now, he became one of the many puppets of the puppeteer.

He was trapped and could only hope to find the one weak point of the media mogul to finally bring him down – a late retribution for Lady Smallwood who lost her husband. The boiling water forgotten, Sherlock walked back to the living room, flopping into the leather armchair across from Mycroft. Before speaking, he swallowed the lie bubbling up his throat to prevent it from becoming a truth. “I can’t.”

“Of course you can.” A tang of anger rang with Mycroft’s voice at his little brother’s stubbornness.

“He needs to be stopped.”

“Why do you hate him?”

“Because he attacks people who are different and preys on their secrets. Why don’t _you_?” Incredulity snuck into the baritone about Mycroft’s blatant oblivion.

“He never causes too much damage to anyone important. He’s far too intelligent for that. He’s a businessman, that’s all, and occasionally useful to us. A necessary evil – not a dragon for you to slay.”

The image of John popped into Sherlock’s mind, and he cringed inwardly at Mycroft’s words. By selling Dimmock Enterprises to Mary Morstan, who already started to dismantle the company, the stocks plummeted. The result caused in John’s bankruptcy. Dimmock and John might not be important to the British government, yet the media mogul had ruined their lives.

His pale blue eyes focused on Mycroft, piercing through him with a mix of contempt and melancholy. “How would you know?”

Mycroft huffed a silent laugh. Before getting up, he made a show of looking around the room. “Well, it’s safe to assume that whatever caused your disappearance had nothing to do with drugs.”

“I told you so.”

Pursing his lips, Mycroft took his umbrella and turned to leave. He shot the kitchen one last glance, regretting the neglected tea and biscuits. At the door he hesitated, grabbing the frame. “You know you can always come to me when need be.”

Sherlock pressed his lips into a thin line, forcing once again any words down his throat before giving in to temptation. He could ask, but that might ruin other lives.

***

Another week went by after Mycroft’s visit at 221B. Sherlock had plunged into his work again; not only work for the MET but also scanning newspaper pages after pages of suicides and charges of attempted blackmail by Magnussen. Of course, the accusers never made it to court with their allegations. But Sherlock needed to find any clue that would put Magnussen in his place before getting a chance to come too close to him again.

John had become an unexpected turn of events for Sherlock. Something he never dared hope to happen. Sherlock’s betrayal stung all the more because he had missed the opportunity to clarify that John was never a means to an end. He didn’t want to imagine what perfidious plan Magnussen might turn up next.

However, his work had been interrupted the following day when the media mogul held his promise.

Several heavy footsteps echoed through the landing, let the floorboards creak at the men’s weight. The door to 221B stood open since Mrs. Hudson brought Sherlock his morning tea an hour ago. Too lazy to get up from the sofa, he had ignored the lack of privacy. But now he strode to the chimney, clutching his russet-colored dressing gown tighter. He bound the sash into a hasty ribbon to conceal the vulnerability of facing Magnussen in his pajamas instead of his usual armor of a two-piece suit.

The two bodyguards entered the flat first, scanning the rooms with practiced eyes before the lanky man followed in their wake. He had dug his hands into his trouser pockets to appear casual and nonchalant. His gaze roved over the furnishings and wallpapers with bored amusement. From the time Sherlock moved into the flat he rarely bothered to clean up the chaos. 221B still looked as though he just moved in.

Once those glacial eyes roamed to Sherlock, sizing him up with a smug smile, he shivered. Magnussen walked to the sofa and sat down, arms spread out over the backrest. One bodyguard walked down the kitchen corridor to have a look at the bathroom and bedroom while the other broadened his shoulders in front of Sherlock. He didn’t ask for permission, but his eyes bored into Sherlock with demand.

For a second Sherlock contemplated what the bodyguard would do if he refused to follow the tacit order. But then he thought better as to provoke a confrontation and raised his arms to let the man frisk him.

“Clean,” the bodyguard announced over his shoulder.

The other man reappeared from the kitchen as well and nodded in affirmation that nobody else was in the flat. Magnussen flicked his eyes between his bodyguards before his icy stare lingered on Sherlock, the tip of his tongue rolling over his bottom lip. “You can wait in the car then.”

Without missing a beat, the two men departed while Magnussen stayed sprawled on the sofa with his legs crossed, fixating Sherlock. Not until the front door snapped shut did the media mogul move, enjoying Sherlock’s obvious confusion.

Magnussen took his glasses off his nose to rub them with a microfiber cloth from his trouser pocket. “I cannot understand how a brilliant mind like yours prefers to live in cluttered chaos instead of systematic order.”

“I don’t need tidiness around me since I only need the order in my brain. Tidiness is easy to recreate for intruders, but not chaos. And I know exactly where every item in this flat belongs.”

“Interesting aspect, but I have personnel for that.” The lanky man leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees.

“A king is only as strong as his army. And when his army consists of a bunch of freelancers he should always be aware that someone might offer a higher price one day.”

“Careful now, Mr. Holmes,” Magnussen pierced him with his glare, yet his lips tugged upward with a haughty smile.

“Why are you here?” Sherlock finally surrendered.

“Since you haven’t paid your debt yet I was thinking about other ways to pay off.”

“I did what you wanted.”

“And yet you failed to report to me. I just don’t understand why. You lived with John Watson for five days. Surely, you would have learned a thing or two to prevent me from investing ten million pounds more than necessary.”

“Still, you got Dimmock Enterprises as well as John Watson’s company.”

“You owe me ten million, Mr. Holmes.”

“I already owe you my freedom. You’ll always find something for leverage anyway.”

“I wonder what your brother would say to this.” Magnussen shot him a pointed look as he got up, the leather of the sofa creaking softly.

Sherlock pulled a face, nose wrinkling in disgust. “What do you want?”

A thin-lipped smile from Magnussen promised another assignment. Instead of answering, he rounded the coffee table and crossed the living room with deliberate steps to convey a menacing danger. Instinctively, Sherlock recoiled as the man invaded his personal space, back bumping into the mantelpiece.

Magnussen left barely a hand’s width between them as he loomed over Sherlock. Even if he wanted to retreat further the wood pressing against his shoulder blades confined Sherlock between the taller man and his chimney.

“What do _I_ want?” Magnussen mused with rhetoric arrogance, his humid breath kissing Sherlock’s cheek. “What did _John Watson_ want?”

A cold hand came up, fingers curled while knuckles brushed over Sherlock’s once purple blossomed cheekbone, replacing the stale puff. The gesture portrayed the opposite of Wilkes’ violence, yet it rendered the same sadistic cruelty. Sherlock’s eyes widened with shock at the implied suggestion. A momentary paralysis overcame him as he dealt with a frightening numbness, too aware that the man always got what he wanted. He owed Magnussen nothing. It didn’t matter to Sherlock whether he would go to prison or not. But if he would fight the man, someone else would suffer.

A dreadful shiver rippled his skin when he looked into those dead eyes, crinkling at the edges with amusement at Sherlock’s awareness. The knuckles stroked along his angular jawline before gripping his chin between thumb and index finger. Magnussen lifted Sherlock’s face, eyes flicking to his lips. “I wonder if you kissed him.”

Magnussen’s thumb swept over his lush bottom lip, dragging the sensitive skin along under his vile caress. Sherlock froze like a frightened deer, mind racing for a solution he couldn’t grasp since a looming shadow hovered over him. It stopped his thinking as he fell into a dark vertigo of emptiness.

The sudden brush of a wet tongue along his lips tore him back when a reflex let him snap back to reality. He grabbed the cold wrist, tightened his finger hard around it. Tendons and bones ground beneath his unrelenting grip.

“Now, now!” Magnussen tutted, lips pursing with patronizing disapproval. He didn’t try to free his hand, conveying his traits as a blackmailer to never act physically. “What is so different about me? John Watson is a man. I am a man.”

“But I am no whore!” Sherlock gritted his teeth.

“I suppose John Watson begs to differ.”

Nostrils flaring with rage and disillusion, Sherlock released the man. Magnussen had taken everything from him he never dared dream about in his life. He could have ordered Sherlock back to Appledore, but instead, he decided to humiliate him in front of John by coming to the hotel suite. Like this, he killed two birds with one stone. First, he knocked Sherlock down a peg by disclosing his false identity. And second, he bereft John of his last bit of strength to fight the buyout.

“You’re a very attractive man, Mr. Holmes. Even someone like me who is more inclined toward women could break down and give in to temptation.”

“Like with Lady Smallwood?” Sherlock tried to ignore the cold sweat beading on his neck. He took a step aside, bringing space between them in search of a much-needed anchor for stability.

“Ah, Lady Elizabeth Smallwood.” Magnussen declared as if speaking about an exquisite wine. “I like her.” He gripped a hand around the edge of the mantelpiece while his other hand unzipped his trousers.

Sherlock inhaled sharply as the man pulled out his dick to relieve himself in the chimney. Looking away from the disgusting scenery, Sherlock explained, “She told me about your _approach_. And yet, you were not willing to concede.”

 “She’s English, with a spine.” Magnussen hummed appreciatively which tightened Sherlock’s stomach into knots. Lady Smallwood didn’t want to give in to the man’s blackmail, and in the end, she lost her husband. “She’s a bit like you.”

When Sherlock heard the zip pulled up his eyes flicked to the lanky man who cleaned his hands with a tissue. If Magnussen attempted the same threatening gesture on Sherlock to coax him into a new obligation it would buy him extra time to find evidence for the man’s downfall. But once his eyes met the icy stare behind reflecting glasses, Sherlock knew that there was no new assignment.

Aghast at the implied revelation, he drew a fortifying breath. “I will never consent.”

The false smile playing at Magnussen’s lips betrayed his cold-heartedness. His eyes flashed with a hundred victims conceding their defeat. “Oh, you will.” He stepped forward, closing the gap between them once again.

Sherlock’s eyes darted over his living room. The man was right. If he wouldn’t want to throw the person he loved to the wolves he had no other choice but to consent or…

His gaze stopped at the small round table standing beside the upholstered red armchair, barely an arm’s length away. Used to his recreational drug habit, he had kept his old syringe and injected his insulin measured from a big vial instead of a pre-filled insulin pen. The seal of the vial wasn’t broken yet, and provided that Magnussen wasn’t diabetic the whole content would definitely kill the man. He would make it down to his car, stumbling and confused before collapsing in front of his puzzled bodyguards. For sure, he would die within the next five minutes. And once forensics get a closer look at the body it would be too late as to make a clear statement about the man’s cause of death because the insulin had decomposed into his system by then.

There remained but one problem. He needed to break the seal and fill the syringe. Obviously, Magnussen wouldn’t stand by and face his ungainly end.

However, before Sherlock could carry out his plan, a long leg shot forward to confound his scheme. Magnussen kicked the table over, sending the syringe flying across the room while the vial burst into thousands of tiny shards.

“As I said, _with a spine_.” Magnussen reiterated, dashing Sherlock’s hope. “But not a murderer.”

Reaching forward, Magnussen grabbed one end of the russet-colored sash, closing the last inches between them. As he slowly tugged at the ribbon the belt loosened and the fabric of the dressing gown slipped free with a soft whisper. With a final step, Magnussen trapped Sherlock against the wall. A large hand released the sash from the loops to let the fabric glide onto the floor.

Magnussen’s dead stare locked with Sherlock’s eyes. Amusement tinged with frightening intimidation flickered in those pale blue iciness. His hand shoved the lapels of the dressing gown aside to stroke over the firm planes of Sherlock’s abdomen. He hummed as his gaze dropped to his splayed fingers where the tips began to playfully trail the seam of Sherlock’s gray shirt.

“Do you want me to stop?” Magnussen asked with dark glee since he already knew the answer. The man leaned forward to Sherlock’s ear, his breath ghosting over the shell before mouthing at the lobe to release the flesh with a sharp scrape of his teeth.

Nausea tightened Sherlock’s stomach with revulsion and bile rose in his throat as he wanted to scream his response. Fists clenched at his sides, angry nails digging red crescents into his palm to ground him and prevent him from doing something very stupid. He wanted to shove the man aside, punch him until a satisfying crunch in his ribcage disclosed the pain Sherlock felt right now. And then he wanted to grip his tie, yank at it with all might to loop the cloth one more time around his neck to strangle the media mogul.

But Magnussen was right. Sherlock was no murderer.

So he closed his eyes in the vain attempt to detach his mind from a gruesome world. The corners of his lips tugged downward in defeat and fear as he offered his neck in a mute reply to the mock-question. He sensed the derogatory smile stretching against his skin before Magnussen licked a broad wet stripe along his neck.

The sensation rippled his body with loathing and sent forth undulating waves of bitter disgust. His breath became shallow as Sherlock tried desperately to find a lifeline that would drag him out of this misery. This was his home, his sanctuary. He wore his most comforting clothes, engulfing him in coziness which promised security. All this was supposed to relax him, to soothe him. Yet now, it got tainted as the filthy touch from Magnussen trickled down his body like liquid tar until a suffocating darkness threatened to consume him.

Sluggish shadows dripped down the wood-paneled walls of his mind palace. Fat droplets squelched on the floor, sprinkling his feet. The ground became slippery, and the blackness turned into an icy current of murky water to drown him in his unspoken refusal.

Magnussen’s cold hand morphed into the glacial liquid as his fingers shoved the seam of his shirt up, wriggling their way under the soft fabric. His pads trailed upward like spider legs, examining and palpating every up and down of Sherlock’s bones and muscles. Dreadful shivers ran down Sherlock’s spine while goose bumps rippled his flesh with sickening revulsion.

A pinching cold draped over him when Magnussen’s lips returned to his ear. His tongue traced the shell down to his jawline, nipping and biting to convey his patronizing possessiveness.

“What if I make you an even better offer?” Magnussen hummed, enjoying his abominable exploration.

Throughout the darkness along the corridors of his mind palace echoed the dripping sounds of oily liquids, consuming him and paralyzing his wits. He had heard the words but couldn’t quite grasp the meaning. They sounded hollow and shallow, just another empty promise. “I’m not interested,” Sherlock gritted through clenched teeth, not daring to open his eyes, afraid of his own reactions.

“Oh, I think you might be very much interested.” Magnussen’s hand splayed over his pectoral, hunting down the thunderous heartbeat beneath the sternum. “At least it would benefit John Watson.”

Unable to withstand the temptation, Sherlock opened his eyes at last. Shock and curiosity reflected in his pale blue stare while the man looked up expectantly with a smug smile. His beard scratched along Sherlock’s sensitized skin. Although his eyes, now bound to reality, escaped the devouring shadows of his mind palace, the deafening pounding of his pulse resonated through with liquid filling halls. It caused deep dark cracks in the walls. With each new bone-breaking sound, even more blackness gushed into his imaginary framework through the fissures.

He needed time to think – think of a solution, a resolve. But there was no time, Sherlock realized as he detected his own frightened mirror image in the reflection of Magnussen’s glasses.

“See,” Magnussen’s bared his teeth in a hideous smile, revealing all his menace. “You’re interested.”

“What is it?” Sherlock’s usually rich baritone had turned into a mere whisper of submission.

“What if I were to rescind my contract with Mary Morstan? I could call off the deal. John Watson would get back his assets as if nothing has ever happened.”

“Of course, this isn’t for free.”

“Nothing is ever for free, Mr. Holmes.” Magnussen’s fingers carded through Sherlock’s sparse dusting on his chest, his thumb brushing over a nipple to emphasize his meaning.

Clenching his jaw to prevent any response, neither positive nor negative, Sherlock floated in his mind. Mycroft had helped him create this sphere of methodical order, but now everything mixed up, ripped apart with no way out. Chaos mingled with the destruction, ruined the neat stability and took over the rein in a pandemonium of shattered memories. Dark water filled his ears, deafening him, drowning him as he gulped down one last gasp to suck the much-needed oxygen into his burning lungs.

Magnussen’s other hand wound its way around Sherlock’s flank to the small of his back, pressing him flush against the lanky man. Beneath layers of clothes, Sherlock felt the man’s stiff cock thrusting against his crotch. “You’ll be my price for John Watson.”

Sherlock submerged in the blackness, drifted, unable to breathe, unable to see. The current dragged him down and down into a swallowing depth. He might save the only people he ever loved.

Magnussen’s hand glided slowly downward over the firm roundness of Sherlock’s buttock and squeezed to force a reply out of him. Sherlock blinked, suppressing the urge to claw at himself, to rip at his skin to wake himself up from this nightmare. He craved the pain to whitewash his numb feelings – his emotional stupor. What else could he ever feel again if not pain?

_I would delete myself from John’s life as if I never existed for him._

A deep rumbling thunder roared through the muffled silence of his drowning mind when the walls tumbled down, eventually yielding to the relentless pressure of darkness. The all-consuming current swept everything away – each book, each clothing, each _memory_ – as he made his disastrous decision.

“So be it!” Sherlock snarled, wrinkling his nose with self-loathing. Bile rose in his throat, and he grabbed the man’s lapels to prevent himself from falling apart.

Magnussen chuckled, a nasty grin of victory across his angular face before he lowered his head to press his lips onto Sherlock’s mouth. Nostrils flaring, Sherlock sucked in a shocked breath to avert the rising nausea. His fingers bunched the expensive fabric of Magnussen’s suit to inhibit the urge to shove the man away. He slid his eyes closed to avert the image of this obnoxious stare flickering with an insatiable hunger.

After a moment, Sherlock forced his body to relax, retreating into the eternal nightfall of his demolished mind palace. He would rebuild the place, restructure it with new corridors and new doors. Doors he would keep locked. Doors he would only open for moments like this when Magnussen claimed his price and shadows consumed him.

Magnussen’s hand on Sherlock’s heart had pried upward, re-emerging at the neckline. The seam creaked at the overstretching of the soft fabric while the shirt pulled taut over Sherlock’s chest in a gruesome embrace. The man cupped Sherlock’s face, fingertips playing with some unruly curls at the hairline. He probed his tongue past lush lips, forcing to open the confinement of teeth to lick its way into Sherlock’s mouth with languorous strokes.

The vile touch became too much. Sherlock’s fingers curled into tight fists. Unable to breathe anymore, he choked on his own panic attack as the trap closed around him. Magnussen’s nails dug into alabaster skin to keep Sherlock still. He bit into the luscious bottom lip when Sherlock couldn’t resist his internal fight and tried to push the man away in the captivity of his clothing. His fists drummed helplessly against the lean chest which resonated with a dark chuckle at the vain attempt.

Sherlock tasted copper as blood oozed from his bottom lip where Magnussen had bitten down. A wet tongue chased the droplet. But then, all of a sudden, the man towering over Sherlock stilled into a momentary paralysis. The reverberations of his sardonic laughter in his chest fell silent, subdued to a ragged breathing.

When Magnussen didn’t move besides the little damp puffs against his scratched cheek Sherlock cracked wary eyes open, awaiting a sadistic repercussion due to his struggle. But once his pupils adjusted to the bright light flooding the room, Sherlock blinked at the contrast shimmering with black metal against the media mogul’s temple.

Sherlock’s eyes widened as he realized that a muzzle of a handgun pressed at Magnussen’s skull. _A SigSauer 226_. Sherlock recognized, too startled to follow the arm holding the gun.

“Get away from him.” The voice sounded quiet and composed, yet beneath the layer of calm, Sherlock sensed the raging storm as every word was accentuated with a menacing pause.

Magnussen’s hand disentangled from the viselike grip on Sherlock’s face as he slipped his arm down under the shirt. One last time, cold knuckles brushed along Sherlock’s abdomen before he unclenched his fists and shoved the man brusquely backward against the hard edge of the mantelpiece. Magnussen winced at the pain while Sherlock grabbed his dressing gown and pulled it around himself like a protective shield.

Finally free from the looming presence, Sherlock stepped back, almost stumbling over the kicked over table. His breath was still caught in his throat, the air too thick, too dense as to simply suck the oxygen into his starving lungs. Not until now, he recognized the man with a black overcoat holding the gun with an outstretched arm. Even though Sherlock wasn’t threatened anymore the man didn’t lower the muzzle.

“John…” Sherlock whispered in disbelief.

Cold metal pressed unforgivingly at Magnussen’s thin skin of his temple, pushing him even more against the wall. Glacial eyes looked through reflecting glasses, and though the man recoiled at the rude act his glare didn’t betray fear.

“Don’t you think that I’m too afraid to pull the trigger, Mr. Magnussen.” John’s hand flexed around the butt to emphasize his meaning. It didn’t belie his usual intermittent tremor but a purpose.

John cocked his head to the side as if observing Magnussen under a magnifying glass. The media mogul’s lips twitched in the attempt of a smile. “Apparently, Mr. Watson, you are no businessman, I see. But a soldier.”

What Magnussen didn’t deem Sherlock or Lady Smallwood to be capable of, he obviously conceded to John. Sherlock’s eyes widened with fear at the notion that John might commit an irrevocable mistake. “John…”

At last, John broke his stormy blue glare with Magnussen to flick his eyes to Sherlock. Whatever he saw in the former prostitute, it tore him back to reality. Nostrils flaring, his eyes roved over the disheveled composure of Sherlock until they rested on the split lip, reddened and swollen. With one last rough push of the muzzle, John knocked Magnussen’s head against the mirror over the chimney before lowering his Sig.

Shaking his head, John stepped back while Magnussen rubbed his pounding temple. “Whatever he has on you, Sherlock, it’s not worth the trouble.”

The words echoed in the flat with weary despair. They conveyed an ambiguous question for John to either leave again or to stay. Sherlock clutched his dressing gown even tighter, arms twining around his lean structure. He had never felt so naked, so vulnerable like in front of John. “Yes,” the baritone rasped as he made his decision. “Please stay.”

A spark flickered in John’s eyes at the plea, relief that Sherlock wouldn’t push him away in a time where he needed him most. “I think it’s time for you to go,” he said to Magnussen, putting his Sig behind the waistband of his jeans at his back. “No business for you to conduct here.”

The lanky man used the mantelpiece as leverage to straighten his shoulders. “How unwise.” He tugged at his collar to rearrange his tie and brushed invisible creases from his jacket before heading for the door. When he walked past Sherlock he leaned in once again. “I’m not a villain. I have no evil plan. I’m a businessman, acquiring assets. _You_ happen to be one of them! Sorry. No chance for you to be a hero, Mr. Holmes.”

Before he knew what was happening, John grabbed Magnussen’s wrist, twisted the arm around his back until his shoulder joint creaked at the effort. It prompted a snarl from the businessman while he was forcibly shoved out of the flat. The tiny shards of the insulin bottle scrunched under their shoes. At the landing, John needed to restrain himself from pushing too hard or the man would fall down the stairs. A charge of malicious injury was the least he wanted now.

“Fuck off!” he hissed full of loathing, bending the man’s arm into an impossible angle once again. “And let me reassure you that if you ever come back you’ll regret it. Since you took everything from me I have nothing to lose anymore.”

“Is that so?” Magnussen gave a meaningful look over his shoulder into the flat, before John released the hold of the man’s wrist. Without wasting another glance, he turned around and shut the door.

Silence fell upon 221B as footsteps receded downstairs and the front door clicked shut at last. Sherlock tightened his self-protecting embrace, bunched his fists into the velvety fabric of his dressing gown before his legs carried him to the window. He peeked through the curtains, blinking at the bright light of the frosty day as he saw Magnussen strode to his car where his bodyguards awaited him, oblivious of the incidents that happened upstairs.

The car pulled away from the curb, and Sherlock drew a sharp intake of breath as relief washed over him, taking along the darkness. With his eyes glued to Baker Street, to his battleground, Sherlock’s baritone turned absently. “He’s right. We’d be fools as to assume that Magnussen lets bygones be bygones. He will come back.”

“I don’t care.” John bid defiance to the man who had destroyed his life yet again.

Sherlock tilted his head, weighing the words. From the corners of his eyes, he observed John still standing with his back pressed to the door of 221B. “I do.” _How would John know?_ The reproach hung in the air, heavy and oppressive. With John’s intervention, he compounded the whole situation. And now he rested against the door, intrepid, without knowing what he got himself into. Anger at his foolish oblivion mingled with guilt since Sherlock shouldn’t blame John for his courage.

_How would he know?_

Sherlock had always been alone except for the occasional meddling from his brother. He wasn’t used to assistance, to someone’s valiant involvement. This required passion. And despite Sherlock’s deception, he didn’t grasp John’s wish to intervene in Sherlock’s affairs.

_I have ruined his life_.

The same dichotomy of guilt and anger seemed to glue John to the door. Both men didn’t move for a long while, struggling with words to voice their muddled feelings – something that Sherlock never experienced before.

“You know, you could have talked to me,” John murmured, ignoring Sherlock’s objection. Apparently, his attempt in putting John off by his blunt declaration didn’t work. Brutal honesty was Sherlock’s sole weapon to jostle away people who clung to irrational sentiment, but with John he was at a loss. The man was as stubborn as Sherlock.

“I remember having told you on several occasions that by the end of the week you wouldn’t want me anymore.” Sherlock took a steadying breath before finally turning around to face John.

“You did,” John conceded, denying Sherlock eye contact so to deduce him. “And yet you failed to tell me the truth. You portrayed a persona full of confidence, so persistent in your performance. Even so, you didn’t follow your own advice.”

Sherlock wanted for John to acknowledge the truth about himself, but at the same time he denied John the same honesty. A constrictive grip tightened around Sherlock’s chest as he swallowed around his own lies. He wanted to protect John, spare him the pain, and yet, in the end he had failed.

“I wanted to hate you.” Nostrils flaring, John spoke through clenched teeth, despair and hope likewise whispered with the words.

Sherlock once again searched John’s stormy gaze, hoping to see the truth, to deduce it. But John cast his eyes down to the wooden floorboards, bidding defiance not only to Magnussen. He wouldn’t allow the detective to read him like an open book. The gesture worried Sherlock since he was forced to use deceptive words. Too often, he had uttered the wrong words to express his mind. Too often, he had lost potential friends.

“What are you doing here, John?” Sherlock sighed, deciding on safer ground than to delve into an emotional chaos that blurred his perception.

At the wistful question, John peeled himself from the door. He shuffled to the abandoned sash in front of the chimney to pick up the velvety fabric. Absent-mindedly, he pulled the belt taut between his hands. “I had some business to deal with nearby.” He still refused to look up and meet Sherlock’s piercing eyes as he closed the gap between them. Instead, he focused on putting the sash through each loop of Sherlock’s dressing gown. “I thought I take the chance to drop by and give you your suit. You forgot it at the hotel suite.”

“I didn’t.”

“I know,” a tired smile curled at John’s lips for a second. “I left it on the landing when I heard voices in the flat.”

Sherlock breathed in the scent of John’s hair at the closeness, a reminiscence of buoyant times tightening his stomach into painful knots. Although he had displayed a false identity he never felt the urge to oppress his true self which always lurked beneath the surface. John had acknowledged Sherlock from the very first moment for who he was. And Sherlock had sensed this, relaxed at the man’s fascination so far as to forget his self-imposed prison of solitude. John didn’t freak out about his first rapid-fire deduction but was intrigued. His eyes didn’t disclose the usually appalled intimidation of secrets laid bare to public because John wanted to be seen – a desire neglected by his upbringing far too long. Secretly, he had waited for someone who would strip him off his own lies – layer by layer – until he only wore the naked truth, visible for everyone. Even though Sherlock’s bluntness also frightened John he couldn’t overcome the magnetic pull of attraction at the man’s genuineness. A fallacy between deception and authenticity.

The awareness constricted Sherlock’s throat as he swallowed around the lump. He wanted to reach out, pull John into a fervent embrace and simultaneously shove him as far away from him as possible. The contradiction clung to him as both actions might cause even more pain for John.

So Sherlock stayed motionless, curling his hands into tight fists at his sides. He ducked his head and looked at how John bound the sash with gentle hands into a neat ribbon to tug the dressing gown closed with careful tenderness. The gesture rendered a choking contrast of Magnussen’s vile process of undressing Sherlock.

Unable to withstand the aching affection, he cupped John’s elbows to prevent him from further fondness. Anxiety crept up his spine like thorny tendrils, raking up to his neck, tearing flesh and bone apart in an all-consuming shudder of fear and sympathy. John flexed his hands into white-knuckled fists at the memory of the media mogul looming over Sherlock, holding him in a viselike grip.

Sherlock didn’t need to look into John’s eyes to deduce the stormy rage skulking under the hidden surface of the soldier. He knew one false step by Magnussen, and John would have pulled the trigger.

“You shouldn’t have bothered.” Sherlock desperately grasped for rationality, instead of giving in to the sweet temptation of sentiment. “The suit’s still worth two thousand quid. Better sell it on.”

A cold derisive huff of laughter evaporated in the flat, sharp and relentless in its scolding. “I don’t give a fuck about money,” John snarled at Sherlock’s ignorance. “I never have. So don’t pretend to sell me my own lies when you so deliberately worked on peeling them off of me.”

Unclenching the raging grip on his hands, John eased the tension off his shoulders. He took a step back in the attempt to escape the alluring touch of Sherlock.

To distract himself from reaching out again, his eyes wandered around the flat, unfocused, but the wall behind the sofa caught his attention. Several pictures and notes were pinned to the fleur de lys motifs within a trellis pattern. Sherlock had gathered all his information about Lord Smallwood’s suicide. Wherever he found clues he also adhered details about other possible blackmail victims to the wall. Hesitantly, John drew closer, narrowing his eyes at the photos. As if to better understand the leads, his fingers brushed over Sherlock’s work until he found a picture of his ex-wife.

Sherlock stepped behind John, nervously swaying his hips to coax tension off his mind and body. He watched John with intense eyes, only now realizing that the man hadn’t chosen his usual armor of a business suit to present a disguise for the world. No. Instead, he had decided on jeans and jumper, the same casual clothing he wore the day they chased an innocent criminal.

At last, both men had shed their fallacious appearances that society dictated them.

John’s lips parted to suck in a sharp breath at the final proof of Sherlock not being a prostitute but a consulting detective. A detective who tried to take Charles Augustus Magnussen into custody.

His voice sounded distant as fingers swept over his own photo next to his ex-wife’s picture, recognizing his part in the investigation. “I trusted you.”

Sad hurt and loneliness resonated with the words. A confrontation that had been mulled over time and again these past weeks. John, who never wholly confided in other people, found the one person who would deceive him with his own trust.

“You have to believe me I had no other choice.” Sherlock lips wavered with the truth. It pained him that John’s perception of him was now twisted into an ugly portrayal of cold-heartedness. “I didn’t use some magic trick.”

“You’re such an annoying dick.” John huffed another hollow laugh, shaking his head in disbelief that Sherlock still wanted to justify his vanity by making an impression. “I don’t care whether Magnussen gave you all the necessary information about me or not. I’ve seen you people taking to pieces, mocking them for their idiocy. But I never supposed I’d be among these people.”

“You never were.” Sherlock’s heartbeat drummed relentlessly in his chest as he admitted, “It’s true, at first, you were just a job, but not a job assigned by a client. Magnussen left me with no option but to comply. He wanted facts on the upcoming buyout so as to not spend risky money. Knowing my methods, he toyed with me and refrained from giving me any reliable information about you.”

“And yet you decided to fuck with me?”

Rare anger tinted John’s ambiguous question, and despair flashed through Sherlock. He so wanted for John to understand, to _see_. But therefore, he needed to make a decision. A resolve he had demanded from John a few weeks ago. “This was your interpretation. You assumed I was a hooker. So I kept to the notion since it helped me to get to your hotel suite and finish the job as quickly as possible. I never intended to get too close as to involve you into something you didn’t choose to.”

“Oh, and that makes this whole situation even better,” John drawled sarcastically, ripping his photo from the wall and crumpling it in his fist.

“No,” Sherlock shook his head, annoyance unfolding in his mind for his inability to use the right words. _Why is it always so hard?_ “Please John, look at me.” He needed to read those cobalt blue eyes, flickering and sparkling with the missing clues Sherlock couldn’t deduce without truly seeing John. “But then I met you, forlorn on the street, with such a rage against your own idiocy exposing society’s inability to accept a broken man. The dichotomy, contradiction and brutal honesty beyond all those layers of lies reflected in my own struggling self. Despite your trust issues, you craved someone who could drag you out of your miserable life. And when you saw me, you didn’t care about fallacy. You could have seen everything in me that night, but you decided on the perception of a hooker, an opportunity of society’s negative image to break free from your self-inflicted bonds. You were willing to use me as I was willing to use you.” Sherlock paused, startled by his own emotional outburst. In his chest raged a thunderstorm as he struggled for words.

“Um…” John’s anger faltered, ceased for uncertainty as he weighed Sherlock’s words, acknowledging the truth in the razor-sharp deduction. He assumed an accusation whereas Sherlock didn’t mean to accuse John.

“You’re like a mirror image of myself, John. You are the most extraordinary man I ever met.”

Silence draped over them, dense and thick, engulfing them into a muffling sphere of vulnerability. The only sounds pervading the flat came from Baker Street and the pounding drum rushing in Sherlock’s ears as he waited for a response from John.

John dropped his gaze one last time to the crumpled picture in his hand. A photo wherein he wore his armor against the world, his usual three-piece suit depicting the businessman he never was. He sighed before finally turning around to face Sherlock. “What does he have on you?”

An imperceptible exhale of relief escaped Sherlock as he met John’s watery eyes. The rage had dissolved into a frown of concern.

“The British government.”

Furling his eyebrows, John hadn’t understood the portentous declaration but the enormity of its consequences. “I understand that although you wore a false person suit you never portrayed an illusion about your personality. You dragged me out of my own self-imposed deception, yet denied yourself the same endeavor.” John dwelled on the thought before his voice turned into a hoarse whisper. “You have no idea however much you saved me. And as much as I tried to ignore it I can’t hate you for that. Let me help you, Sherlock. With no barriers of lies.”

He held out the crumpled picture for Sherlock to take it, dispose of it. The gesture demonstrated that John no longer was a part to be investigated, but becoming part of the investigation itself to help Sherlock in finding clues which would put Magnussen’s head in a noose.

Sherlock looked at John with a mix of amazement and incomprehension as the man walked past him to take a seat in the red upholstered armchair. He had expected rage or revulsion but not forgiveness, though he understood that this didn’t include condonation regarding John’s marred trust.

“It had been my fault,” Sherlock followed John suit and sat down in his armchair, crossing his legs as his hands gripped the leather of the armrests in a nervous fashion. “I underestimated Magnussen.”

“We all made the mistake,” John conceded, glowering at the sour reminiscence of his own past.

“It began when Lady Smallwood asked me to retrieve some compromising letters for her husband since Magnussen blackmailed her as well. I saw it as an opportunity to get to the man at last. Since I knew about his vast vaults hidden in Appledore, his house, the job was too tempting. But he denied me the letters, used them as bait for a bigger fish. He wanted to get to my brother who works for the British government. So I made a deal with the devil. In exchange to catch a glimpse at Appledore, I offered my brother on a silver plate. Sensitive information about confidential material was the only possibility to nick those letters from Appledore. On Christmas, I _borrowed_ my brother’s laptop and delivered it to Magnussen. But I made an enormous mistake.” Sherlock’s gaze dropped, averting his eyes at his own failure. “There were no vaults where he stored all his proof away. He never needs proof.”

John’s eyebrows furled, “But how…”

“He owns newspapers and TV channels, John. All he needs to do is to print it.”

“You mean lies.”

“No, he prints the truth which is enough to ruin lives.”

“I don’t understand.”

“He uses a mind palace like I do.” And this had been Sherlock’s imperfection.

“You mean he destroys any proof as soon as he puts the information in his head?”

“Yes,” Sherlock pursed his lips in disapproval about his own failure. “And with no vaults, I couldn’t nick any letters which were faked anyway. So he got me.”

“How?”

“With the laptop. As soon as he started it the GPS would have been activated. We would have gone to prison for high treason since I couldn’t prove anything without the actual vaults.”

“So he’s blackmailing you in exchange for going to prison?”

“Yes and no. My brother would never let me go to prison. I would provoke too much an uproar on a daily basis. For him, I’m far more valuable somewhere like MI6. He would have sent me on a mission.” Sherlock’s fingernails dug into creaking leather at the thought of leaving London and never being able to return because this mission never meant for him to return alive. Contrary to his so often self-proclaimed high-functioning sociopath, he still cared about self-preservation. He didn’t want to die somewhere with no one knowing who he was. He wanted to be the consulting detective to leave some trace in an ever-changing world.

“I see,” John looked at Sherlock’s white knuckles. “That’s why you agreed.”

“At first, yes.” Sherlock glowered at the chimney which had been sullied earlier and bile rose in his throat full of disgust and fear of what might have happened next. “A couple of weeks after the incident in Appledore, he dropped by and demanded for me to spy on you regarding the upcoming buyout. Since this was illegal I declined, but he had an ace up his sleeve – my brother.”

John frowned, hesitating at the information. “But you said, he wanted to get to your brother. Why would he suddenly use him as a pressure point?”

“I don’t know.” Sherlock chewed his bottom lip, abashed at yet another failure in deducing the media mogul before nearly hissing with anger, “Magnussen is very meticulous in keeping his own secrets.”

“So that’s it?” John asked, unable to hide the dismal disappointment in his voice.

“No,” Sherlock replied, agitation taking over the slender man as he stood up to pace the room back and forth. “Magnussen told me that he has some very compromising material about Mycroft, not concerning his private life like with Lord Smallwood but concerning his professional life.”

“And what exactly is his professional life?”

“He is the British government, working as the Chief of the SIS and occasionally for the MI5. He has a finger in every pie.”

“Do you know what compromising stuff Magnussen has on your brother then?”

Sherlock pressed his lips to a thin line since he once again didn’t know an answer to a question. “No, but I understand that if he has this information it’ll be the downfall of the British government. Just imagine what the involvement of MI6 could provoke worldwide.”

“But Magnussen could also lie to draw you out since you refused to do the job in the first place.”

“No, because he gave me one clue to convince me – _Napoleon_.”

John frowned at the hint. “What does a dead Emperor have to do with your brother?”

“Nothing,” Sherlock said absent-mindedly. His mind rifling for the missing puzzle piece, delving into his work in front of the wall full of notes. “There are two far more important questions which need to be replied. Why is he blackmailing me if he already got his information from another source and is using my brother as a pressure point? And why did Magnussen want me to spy on you if you were a mere stopover for Dimmock Enterprises? Even the old man’s company didn’t seem of interest to him.”

John pursed his lips, pensive and full of disapproval as a thought popped into his mind. “The only connection I see is Mary.”

Sherlock’s gaze roved over the small picture of John’s ex-wife, furling his brows as he took the information in. “But what would your ex-wife have anything to do with me?”

“Probably nothing,” John stepped beside Sherlock. His eyes glued to the petite frame of Mary smiling from the photo. “But you said yourself that Mary might have something for Magnussen, maybe some crucial information – a barter for my company she wanted since a long time. What if Mary was just a stopover for him to get to your brother?”

John’s question echoed in his ever-racing mind to finally grasp the missing clue which seemed to vanish through yet another loophole. He remembered them riding the elevator for the thirty-seventh floor when they read the mock-contract made by Mary to intimidate John. Mere seconds before Magnussen had ripped their lives apart, his subconscious summoned his deductions about John’s ex-wife – a shadow of an impression he got at the Hurlingham Club. She tried to depict the coldhearted businesswoman in which she succeeded, but Sherlock saw the lie, the crack in her composure when her eyes flickered with curiosity about his last name. Her behavior betrayed many layered personas, well-trained in switching between them and in how much to reveal. Compared to John, who had actually believed the fallacy of his alter ego, Mary very deliberately chose her countenance of the cheated wife to whitewash her true self. It portrayed the same enforced roles for society Sherlock used while hiding behind the elaboration of a high-functioning sociopath.

“Tell me more about her,” Sherlock said, narrowing his eyes at her picture in search for the final lead. “It was indeed very hard to find out anything about her.”

“Er…” John frowned. “Before we met she lived in the US, in Washington and worked at the British embassy.”

“As a nurse?” Sherlock cut in, wondering about John’s words.

“I…” John stopped perplexed at the question. “I actually don’t know. She never told me what kind of work she did abroad.”

“When I researched her I got a line on her working as a nurse, but I never found out in which hospital or surgery she worked.”

John furled his brows as he admitted, “She never told me as what exactly she worked. But when I once rummaged our insurance papers I came upon documents that disclosed her employment for half a year at the embassy.”

“When was it?”

“Um…” John contemplated, stalling for time as he tried to remember when he had met Mary. It set Sherlock’s stomach aflutter since John didn’t consider his anniversary with his ex-wife important enough as to keep the date in mind. To hide his inner glee, he put steepled fingers in front of his mouth. “Around four and a half years.”

Sherlock’s eyes snapped to John, sharp and piercing, as if John had lied once again. “Four and a half years?”

Taken aback about the reiteration from a man, who obviously despised repeating himself, John nodded. “Yes. Why?”

“Before my brother became the head of the MI6, he worked at the embassy in Washington. They must have met.”

“Wha –?” John asked as the missing piece of a puzzle started to slot into the overall picture.

A sudden agitation gripping at Sherlock, the man whirled around. His russet colored dressing gown billowing with the movement as he once again paced the room back and forth. “Do you know anything else about her life before she worked in Washington?”

“Not much. Except that she grew up as an orphan. No family but a lot of friends.”

“So she returned to Britain and started to work for your father’s company?”

“Yes.”

“A nurse becoming an estate agent?” John frowned at Sherlock’s sarcastic tone, yet he mirrored the man’s suspicion about the curriculum vitae of his ex-wife. “And then you met?”

“Yes. I was in the middle of my medical training at Bart’s and met her during one of my father’s visits in London. After a couple of dates, I took the relationship a step further. Even though we had a long-distance relationship we worked it out, or maybe that was why it actually worked out,” he added sardonically. “Anyway, when I finished my training as a houseman I was deployed to Afghanistan. Mary was furious, but I had set my mind. While I worked in Afghanistan she took care of my father’s natural gas pipelines in Serbia.”

“In Serbia?” Sherlock knitted his brows.

“My father obtained them through another buyout wherein they were not the main object, rather a mere incentive. It’s just the pipelines with a length of two kilometers and its licenses. The old man wanted to get rid of the contracts due to locally economic problems. Mary volunteered for the trip and sold them to the highest bidder.”

Eyes narrowing, Sherlock already knew the answer to his next question, but he asked nonetheless. “Was there a certain reason your father sent her and didn’t travel by himself?”

“Well, Mary speaks several languages fluently. Serbian is one of them.” Despite John’s matter-of-fact explanation Sherlock observed that suspicion crept into John’s words bit by bit.

“Don’t you think that she’s a bit overqualified for a nurse?”

“Since my father appointed her I never saw her personal record with which she applied, but I can check it for you.”

Sherlock nodded at the suggestion, eyes turning unfocused as he tried to grasp the still missing connection between Mary and his brother. What compromising material could John’s ex-wife have in trade for John’s company? And moreover, how would a simple nurse know about such confidential matters?

This was for sure, Sherlock concluded, Mary Morstan lied about her professional existence among other skeletons in the cupboard.

Whirling around with another fluid movement, Sherlock strode through the living room as he shrugged out of his dressing gown. He flung the garment over the upholstered armchair, a decision forging in his mind – a decision he didn’t like, yet unavoidable anymore. Although John promised to help him with Mary’s faked CV Sherlock needed to ascertain the link between her and his brother.

He must meet Mycroft.

The second his bare feet met the floorboards of the kitchen, cold reality dragged him back from his battling mind, reminding him that John wasn’t part of his life anymore. He couldn’t just expect the man would follow him everywhere. Paralyzing awareness crept up his spine, a taciturn fear tightening his stomach into knots to numb his body for a moment.

Emotions, that he had always fought to suppress, surged up and threatened to drown him in the realization that he shouldn’t manipulate John to follow him once again. So far, he had learned from his mistakes. He shouldn’t take John’s companionship for granted. No. He was no sociopath after all. If he wanted to amend his former mistakes he needed to leave a choice for John.

“I’m going to see my brother. Do you want to come along?”

Tension seeped into John’s posture at the question. Obviously, he hadn’t expected to be asked along while Sherlock furthered his investigation, the buzzing of the last case still a vibrating reminiscence under their skin. It drew them back to a time when trust hadn’t been impeded by barriers of betrayal.

“I… er…” John stuttered, left hand flexing with an old habit he couldn’t easily shed. Yet, his eyes sparkled with excitement that he reined in with hunching shoulders – the dichotomy of dream and reality colliding in his pose. “I can’t.”

“Oh.”

Blinking at the disappointment in the baritone, John added hastily, “It’s not that I don’t want to, but I have a plane to catch. I was just around the corner visiting a possible place for my future surgery. So I decided to drop by and bring your suit.” To avert his vulnerability John’s gaze dropped to his wrist, checking for the time on his watch.

“I see,” Sherlock disguised his anguish behind angular features, clenching his teeth, afraid the wrong words would spill from his mouth. And for the first time since John entered the flat, Sherlock truly saw him – the weathered lines worrying with a deep furrow, the dark circles under his eyes, his sagged shoulders and the slight limp. Suddenly, awareness struck him how hard these past few weeks must have been for John. While his company was ripped into pieces he had to stand back and witness how his assets shrunk day by day. The man with the compact structure, pulsating with a quiet strength within the sanctuary of their hotel suite, became a mere shadow of his former might.

Pain bled into Sherlock’s heart at the sight that John Watson was once again a broken man. With time breathing down his neck, John had to catch an ordinary flight instead of his usual private jet.

Blood rushed through his ears, relentlessly drumming at his own fault in ruining John’s life. He wanted to stride to the door and slam it shut again before John reached the landing. He wanted to grip his shoulders and drag him into an apologetic embrace. He wanted to amend his mistake…

“I’m sorry,” John said, turning around one last time. Concern mingled with an odd mix of anticipation and hope. “You’ll be fine?”

“I’ve told you so many times, don’t apologize for the mistakes others make,” Sherlock replied with a light tone, ignoring John’s implication. After all, John was right. One couldn’t just easily shed the skin.

A weak smile curled at the corners of John’s mouth before he vanished from Sherlock’s view. The wooden creak of the floorboards followed by receding footsteps echoed in Sherlock’s paralyzed mind, each step a roaring thunder of emptiness – each step a hollow memory of Magnussen’s approaching steps.

Once again loneliness engulfed him with its black veil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since the story is now completely written down with a current word count of a bit over 111k with 10 chapters in total I’ll try to update at the beginning of August. 
> 
> If you want to catch up with me you’ll also find me on [Tumblr](http://nymeria578.tumblr.com/).


	9. Battleground

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thanks goes to my wonderful beta [GhostTari](http://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostTari/pseuds/GhostTari) who, as always, provided her invaluable help. If you still find some mistakes I’ll take the blame.
> 
> And as always thanks for all the kudos and lovely comments! They’re making my day :)

“You really don’t want me to wait?” Harry’s husky voice mingled with concern as she leaned forward to have a better look out the window of the cab pulling up to the curb.

John’s eyes followed her gaze to the brass 221B on a black door. “Yes. I need to do this alone. If you wait in the taxi, I’ll feel like you being on my tail, and then I can’t focus.”

A weak smile flicked over his face since it was a lame excuse. In fact, his stomach tightened into knots, nervous even anxious of what might happen next. Harry ran a hand through her now shingled hair, an old habit since she wore her blond long for a few years. The modern bob cut portrayed the outcome of the last few weeks – a transformation to get rid of her old life.

After heaving a sigh, she nodded. “Okay.”

“You just drive ahead to the hotel. No matter what his decision is, I’ll probably need some time on my own afterward.” Since his last visit at 221B a couple of weeks ago, he had been in contact with Sherlock about his investigation on Magnussen. However, since yesterday Sherlock stopped replying to his messages. It worried John because Magnussen’s threat hang over their heads like Damocles’ sword, and the blade could fall down any minute. What if something had happened to Sherlock? So he didn’t hesitate to book a flight to London. His bags were kept packed anyway.

“All right, I’ll take our suitcases to the hotel, and then you decide what to make of it.”

An appreciative smile curled around his lips as he leaned over to kiss her cheek. The last weeks prompted a change in their relationship. Bound together against a common enemy, they finally talked with each other again. And with no barriers of lies between them anymore, John realized that they had always been close except that their father drove an inextricable wedge between them a very long time ago. John’s biggest fear after the dismantling of their company was that Harry might fall back into her old patterns of alcohol abuse. But his sister surprised him with her strength to conquer her weaker self. It seemed with the company gone, Harry also freed herself from the fetters of her past. As did John. And now they focused on their different lives to find a balance within this new world.

John had shaken off the last remnants of his father. With the choking pressure lifted off his chest, he finally was able to breathe.

There remained just one thing to do.

After climbing out the cab, he clicked the door shut and waved goodbye before heading for the black door amidst the buzzing life of Baker Street. Small cloudlets evaporated into the air as he exhaled once the taxi pulled out and blended in the busy rush hour of London’s afternoon traffic.

He lingered for a moment in front of the door, uncertainty creeping up his mind. In the last weeks, they had messaged each other on a regular basis. John sent him all the relevant documents about his ex-wife which Sherlock required to find the missing piece of the puzzle. Yet, every time they had found a lead they reached an impasse.

John was so focused on helping Sherlock with the case he even forgot about his company being ripped to shreds. He couldn’t care less since he had already made up his mind on his new life. However, now, standing in front of the black door, doubt poisoned him, paralyzed him. What if Sherlock severed all contact with John because he indeed deemed sentiment as a chemical defect?

Whoever Sherlock depicted those five days when they lived together the portrayal was never a complete lie. So far John knew. But given the man’s past, he also understood Sherlock’s distrust in people. Yet, John had made his irrevocable decision the last time he had visited 221B.

He took a fortifying breath to shake off his doubt before realizing that the door wasn’t locked. Concern furrowed his brows as he pushed at the knob and entered the house.

John closed the door again and waited in the corridor, straining his ears for any sound – a bow drawn along strings of a violin, padding feet from the agitated man as he paced the living room or the sharp hiss of a Bunsen burner singing an experiment. But instead, he heard muffled voices. One of them belonged to Mrs. Hudson who John met the last time. The other one, however, was unfamiliar and not Sherlock’s. Shadows of his last visit tarnished his memory, and he all but sprinted up the stairs, taking two steps at a time.

The door to 221B stood open as he halted at the threshold a bit out of breath, facing Mrs. Hudson and a stranger who, somehow, looked familiar. Startled about the interruption, the lean man looked down his nose in disapproval.

“Dr. Watson?” Mrs. Hudson greeted in a question, conveying her surprise.

“Erm…” before hurrying upstairs, John hadn’t contemplated what he would actually do if Sherlock wouldn’t be at home. Confused, his eyes flicked between the older woman and the other visitor. “Hello, Mrs. Hudson.”

“So you are Dr. John Watson?” the man asked.

“And you are?”

“I am Mycroft Holmes,” a thin-lipped smile twisted the man’s mouth as he watched John’s face reflecting an obvious epiphany.

Tentativeness mingled with discomfort as the man sized John up as if he was a goldfish in a glass. The gesture disclosed the same curious look Sherlock used to deduce people, but more intense. To distract himself from the rising nervousness, John’s gaze roved over the flat in search of the detective. But when he found no hint of the flat’s tenant, John gave in. “Where’s Sherlock?”

At this, Mycroft’s piercing stare broke and he clicked his tongue annoyed, the displeasure about his absent brother apparent. “I was hoping you could provide an answer to the question since you have seemingly become _friends_.” The man had the same intimidating trait like his younger brother to speak with an underlining tone of disdain, emphasizing the last word as if to mock John.

The muscles in John’s body tensed, ropes flexing involuntarily beneath his clothes at the patronizing demeanor of the older Holmes. He remembered Sherlock’s words about his family when John sat, back to chest, with the man in a bathtub. Now he understood his attitude toward his brother. But if he wanted to find the detective John needed to cooperate. “I haven’t heard from him since yesterday in the morning.”

“That’s extremely inconvenient.” Mycroft sighed, his face softening to let the mask of sternness drop. He gripped his umbrella tighter as he walked over to the wall full of notes. His eyes narrowed at the collected clues while skimming over Sherlock’s scrawl until his gaze lingered on the picture of Mary Morstan. “Mrs. Hudson,” he said, absent-minded. “Would you be so kind as to leave us? I have to discuss confidential matters with Dr. Watson.”

Mrs. Hudson grabbed the seam of her apron, her voice turning into a shocked whisper, “Do you think he relapsed?”

John’s eyes flicked to the landlady, widening with alarm. Sherlock had told him he had been clean for two years, but the last time he had met the man his mind seemed shattered. As yet he wasn’t able to find a solution to his quandary. Trepidation pressed on his chest, hot and relentless as he imagined Sherlock overdosing as a last resort to save his brother’s reputation.

But before John could give in to the choking feeling, Mycroft spoke clipped. “No.” The word hung in the air as silence muffled the flat, giving no space for interpretation. After a moment of consideration, Mrs. Hudson nodded once and turned on her heel to head for the staircase.

They listened to the receding footsteps before Mycroft averted his scrutinizing gaze from the wall. “Tell me, Dr. Watson, did you know about your ex-wife’s past?”

John arched a quizzical brow at the blunt query. “Well, obviously you know her better than me.” Anger prompted his old habit to surface as he flexed his left hand with no intermittent tremor betraying his inner turmoil. How dare the man ask him a question to which he already knew the answer?

“I see,” the older Holmes sighed in an exaggerated fashion. “My brother brought you in on his investigation.”

John’s eyes sparkled with grim mirth as he recognized that the other man didn’t like the notion. “He did.”

“Let me assure you, Dr. Watson, although you might investigate with my brother on this case he deliberately chose to not give you all the relevant information so to protect you.”

John furled his brows, not understanding what Mycroft signified. “I don’t need protection.” He had lost nearly everything from his old life. There wasn’t anything left to take from him. Hence, Magnussen didn’t pose a threat to him anymore.

“My brother believes you do. I have never seen him care for anyone else. He doesn’t like to get involved with people.”

“Maybe you misjudged him.” Another wave of irritation surged up in John as he defied the older Holmes.

A dark chuckle reverberated through Mycroft, fueling John’s acrimony. But when his eyes met John’s stormy blue stare defending his little brother with tacit protection, Mycroft’s smile faded. “Maybe…” he conceded after a moment’s consideration. “Do you understand why he is fighting Magnussen?”

“To save your reputation?”

Humorless mirth evaporated into another quiet laughter, into one sharp exhale while sarcasm belied the gesture. “And to make amends for his mistakes.”

A premonition crawled under John’s skin. Sherlock had tried to right a wrong the last time Magnussen had stopped by in 221B and almost been raped. Apprehension, that Sherlock might commit another mistake to protect John and therefore exclude him once again, flashed through him as he deduced where the detective was. “Where is he?”

“When he’s not with you there is but one conclusion,” Mycroft replied pointedly while John already knew the answer but needed confirmation. “He must be with Magnussen.”

“Bugger,” John cursed under his breath. His gaze flicked to the window on impulse, to the outside world where Sherlock had blended into. But where exactly? His mind raced, trying to remember the many places Magnussen owned. There was something Sherlock had told him about the media mogul’s vaults. Eyes turning unfocused, he tried to grab the word. “Appledore,” he whispered, uncertain if this was indeed the correct name.

“Please, Dr. Watson, do have a seat.” Mycroft pointed with his umbrella at the upholstered armchair in front of the chimney.

But John shook his head, the same agitation that ever so often seized Sherlock suddenly gripped at his own body. “I’d rather stand.”

As if to defy John, Mycroft pressed his lips to a thin line in disapproval and walked over to the other armchair. The leather creaked softly under the man’s weight. Skeptical eyes took John to pieces once again. “I raised my brother to be careful in trusting other people,” Mycroft began, picking his words with deliberation. “As do I. My position requires such caution. I deemed it as too distracting as to get involved in social behavior.”

“What? You don’t trust your own Secret Service?”

“Naturally not. They all spy on people for money.”

John huffed a small laugh, tension easing off his shoulders as Mycroft also seemed to relax for the sake of his brother. “I suppose so.”

“But somehow my brother confides in you. And despite him shattering your trust, you still have faith in him.”

“Magnussen needs to be in prison. He’s driving people into suicide on purpose. Even though Sherlock deceived me, I can understand his motive. He wants to protect you as well.”

Mycroft stared at the grate, wistful. His hardened features betrayed discomfort that John knew about his weak point. “He does,” the man acknowledged after a moment. He heaved another sigh, gesturing with his hand to the armchair across from him for John to finally sit down. “What I’m going to tell you now needs your undivided attention since it is confidential material to which only Sherlock is privy.”

Still reluctant, John looked at the other man tilting his head in invitation, used to people do his bidding. Mycroft Holmes was a man who would never accept a _no_ , John conceded before he shuffled to the red armchair and lounged into the soft cushion. He realized that defying the older Holmes was more difficult than to withstand Sherlock. “What now? You want to threaten me to find some compromising material on my laptop if I don’t concur?”

A sardonic smile twitched at Mycroft’s lips, amused about John’s defiance. “I considered it.”

“I see a family trait here,” John said with no ill intent toward the manipulative streak of both brothers.

Mycroft rolled his eyes at the declaration. Apparently, to a certain degree, he took pride in his little brother, yet he didn’t want to be compared to him since the older Holmes considered himself superior. Silence settled in the flat as Mycroft chose his words with care. “As my brother already told you I worked at the British embassy in Washington four years ago along with your ex-wife. But you should know that the woman named as Mary Morstan died shortly after her birth in the seventies.”

John frowned at the information. “What?”

“Your ex-wife’s real name shouldn’t be relevant to you, but she used the initials A.G.R.A. And of course she didn’t work as a nurse. I assigned her this profession as a cover.”

“And what was her real profession?”

“She was a contract killer.”

The answer pulled the rug out from under John’s feet. Time and again, he had mulled over her job at the embassy since Sherlock voiced misgivings about Mary being a nurse. So far, he had considered her to be a spy because Sherlock never elaborated her work abroad, even after his talk with Mycroft. “An assassin?”

“Sort of. Her clients came from influential circles. In those days, I worked on a plan called _Coventry_. To avoid causalities, the design included an unmanned airplane full of corpses so as not to alert terrorists. Admittedly, this wasn’t my idea, but of a Mr. Richard Brook. What I didn’t know back then was that Brook stood for a pseudonym designated by James Moriarty.”

Mycroft paused, waiting for any sign of awareness about the man’s name, but John shrugged his shoulders. “Never heard of him.”

Leaning back into the leather armchair, Mycroft twirled the crook handle of his umbrella between thumb and fingers, divulging his annoyance about his own blunders. “Moriarty has a vast criminal network all over the world. While my brother claims to be a consulting detective, Moriarty calls himself a consulting criminal.”

“A bit unconventional to ask a criminal how to defraud terrorists.”

Mycroft arched an eyebrow at the sarcasm. “Obviously I learned about his true identity at a later date,” he said snidely before folding his hands in front of his face, elbows propping on the armrest to contain his composure. “So MI6 and CIA worked together on defying terrorists whereas the idea originated from one. But before we accomplished the mission, Moriarty’s cover blew and he escaped.”

“And what has Mary to do with all of this?”

“She was the one who blew his cover.”

 Surprised at the revelation, John leaned forward, arms resting on his knees in expectation for more information. “And why would she have done this?”

“For protection,” Mycroft’s knuckles turned white as he flexed his hands. “I made two enormous mistakes. First, I was gullible in regard to James Moriarty. And second, I underestimated your ex-wife.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” John’s voice tinged with growing impatience since the man tended to talk like Sherlock without going into great detail.

“Your ex-wife is a very ambitious person who had planned this all along.” Mycroft’s angular features hardened, contorting his face into a mask of self-reproach. “According to her, she worked as a sniper for Moriarty but learned soon enough that people who peeved him disappeared from the scene. Putting two and two together, she realized that he had more assassins working for him.”

“So she took fright?”

Mycroft huffed a derisive snort. “You should know that Moriarty, to run his network, needed assets. Contract killers don’t work for free. But he took no interest in accumulating money for his own benefit. He is toying with people, curious about what they do. Instead of keeping the money, he invested it all over the world to become a part of some nations’ economic system, using it against their governments. He wanted the gas pipelines running through Serbia so to have a pressure point for the countries that relied on the supply. Like this, he could run a web forcing corruption to shape politics.”

“Serbia?” John mumbled, the answer already clicking in his mind about his father’s possession of the pipeline.

“Your ex-wife was never a woman to take second billing to anybody. As I said, her ambitions are running high. So she lied when she came to me seeking help.”

John averted his eyes to the wall across the room. His gaze locked with the picture of Mary as he remembered her character trait to not play a minor role in their relationship. With all the new information, fiery anger began to seethe in his chest, searing him at the betrayal beyond the matrimonial deception. “What did she do?”

“She tried to take over Moriarty’s network in Serbia. But since she lacked the necessary assets, there was but one way to get at it – by assassinating her employer.”

“She wasn’t successful, I presume.” John scrubbed a hand over his face as every puzzle piece finally slotted into its place.

“No, she wasn’t. Thus, she wanted to become a part of our witness protection scheme in exchange for her valuable information on Moriarty. If I knew about her hidden agenda, I would never have consented.”

“So she became a real estate agent named Mary Morstan working in my father’s company.” Now John understood why Mary was so adamant in becoming the new head of the company after his father’s dead. She could have run the business as well as follow her own plan by getting to the bank accounts.

“Yes.”

“To whom did she sell my father’s gas pipelines?” Mycroft Holmes was a well-informed man. Surely, he kept an eye on such an important witness.

“To Lord Moran, a member of Parliament.”

“So you knowingly planted an assassin on my father and me who still planned to take over a criminal network?” John couldn’t help hiding the cynical tone. After dismantling John’s company, she now possessed the assets to implement her scheme.

“I learned about her plans as of recently. During her time in the witness protection scheme, she never committed a crime which would have required an intervention. I cannot put her into prison for not breaking the law.”

“Of course not.” John sneered, realizing that Mary could also use her compromising material against Mycroft.

“Dr. Watson,” Mycroft tried to reason him. “We have more urgent matters to discuss since I believe that Magnussen must have learned about her past after she gave him the required information. Do you really think he will leave her be?”

“You mean, he will put her to a good use?”

“First and foremost, he is a blackmailer. Driving people into suicide isn’t that different from instructing someone to enforce it.” Mycroft raised his interlaced fingers to his mouth, hiding a grim smile. “But he is underestimating her, too.”

“She got what she wanted – necessary assets to dethrone Napoleon.” John finally understood the clue Sherlock had mentioned.

“Exactly. Which makes her even more dangerous.” Mycroft leaned forward, his hand sliding into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. He produced a black Browning L9A1. “I presume you know how to handle it.”

John looked at the matt gleaming metal. “Yes, of course.”

“It’s unregistered in case you need to use it,” Mycroft quirked a suggestive brow. “Sherlock hasn’t gone to Magnussen with no reason. I want you well prepared.”

Lips pursing, he considered Mycroft’s implicit proposal. “You want me to go after Sherlock and shoot Magnussen?”

“I want you to protect my brother,” Mycroft said with a pointed look.

John weighed the words which left him the choice to make a decision. After a moment of consideration, his fingers curled around the butt, feeling the different balance than his SigSauer in his hand. The dutiful soldier he was he checked for the ammunition and the trigger safety.

“There is a helicopter waiting around the corner in front of Regent’s Park. It’ll take an hour to reach Appledore.”

“You don’t come along?”

“No,” Mycroft stood up, gripping his umbrella once again. “If I show up at Magnussen’s home he will win. I won’t let that happen.”

“But Sherlock’s your brother, and he’s right now fighting a battle for you.”

“He always has,” Mycroft’s eyes lingered on the Browning as John tucked the cold metal behind the waistband of his jeans. The man’s look disclosed a strange mix of determination and concern. “Did you know that my brother has never been in a relationship? He trusted nobody so far as to take care. But with you he is different. That is why I’m trusting you with his protection, Dr. Watson.”

Bewildered, John stared at the lean man in his exquisite three-piece suit. He began to understand Sherlock’s reluctance toward sentiment with such an older brother. Yet, John also saw a small spark of affection in those piercing eyes, and he obviously deemed John trustworthy enough to entrust him with saving his little brother.

John nodded, a terse jerk of affirmation before he darted down the stairs. He wanted to lose no precious time. His mind raced as he sprinted to the corner, threading his way through a gathering crowd of gawkers who watched the rare sight of a helicopter amidst the street. He elbowed his way to the helicopter, ignoring the reproachful curses from the bystanders. While the rotor blades spun in lazy circles, implying the imminent take-off, wind whirled dust up as he drew closer and ruffled his hair into a spiky mess. The pilot gestured for him to hop into the cockpit.

After climbing into his seat, a thunderous storm of flapping metal overhead roared up as the engine reached its pitch to lift the fuselage. Last remnants of Afghanistan crept into his consciousness where a helicopter took him away from his last battle with a gunshot scorching his flesh. No. He wouldn’t let this happen today. Determined, he gripped the headphones and put them over his ears. The familiar crackling sounded through the radio, but the pilot didn’t say a word, seemingly instructed by Mycroft.

When they were high enough John blinked over the buildings into the last glimpse of the setting sun while twilight clad London with its gray veil. The jerk of the engine ripped John from his minute amazement as he was pressed into the seat, and the pilot headed for their destination.

***

By the time they arrived according to Mycroft’s estimation, darkness had traversed the strip of land. The only light radiated from the house with its vast glass front. Touching down near the main gate, John wondered if their landing went unnoticed. Before climbing out of the cockpit, he felt for the black metal once again hanging heavily behind his waistband, obscured by his black jacket.

Once his shoes met well-trimmed grass, he shut the door and knocked for the pilot to express his gratitude. The other man nodded and John took several steps back, recognizing that the helicopter wouldn’t wait for him.

_Apparently just a one-way ticket._

Mycroft seemed to cut off any evidence which might lead back to him. John clutched his jacket tighter against the crisp gust whirled up as the helicopter took off. When the light became a mere white dot in the distance of the height John turned around to dart for the entrance door.

During the flight, he had contemplated how he would get past Magnussen’s bodyguards in case they were present. All his schemes ended with two unconscious men.

Small cloudlets puffed in front of his face as he jogged toward the final chapter of his story. Either this would be his complete ruin or his salvation.

When he arrived at the entry area framed with two square pillars made of yellow brick, he boggled. The heavy oak door stood ajar. Hesitant, John drew closer, turning around to search the darkness for any suspicious occurrences. But everything was quiet and seemed at peace.

Careful, he pushed the door open to find it blocked by an unseen obstacle. The fine hairs at the nape of his neck stood upright, a tingling sensation reminding him of his deployed time. Intuitively, he produced the metal from the small of his back. His dominant hand clasped around the butt as John shoved harder to crane his head past the edge of the door.

Appledore’s hallway was dimly lit, but he could clearly make out the outline of a man with broad shoulders, collapsed on the floor. John wriggled through the constriction of the door and its frame since the bodyguard’s leg blocked the entrance. He shot the half-dark hallway a glance to ensure he wouldn’t suffer the same fate as the bodyguard. Getting ambushed by an unseen enemy while crouching down to check on the man’s breathing and palpate his pulse was the least thing he wanted.

_Just unconscious._

From his ducked position, John skimmed the narrow walls which led to a large hall flushed with light. He pursed his lips, considering his next steps. Somewhere in this spacious mansion was Sherlock. But what happened here? Did Sherlock knock the bodyguard out?

John brought the Browning on shoulder level, checking the firing pin safety before ever so quietly sneaking toward the light. In the distance, he heard low voices echoing through huge rooms. It helped him to orientate in the house.

When he reached the light, John encountered a garden within the house. Water gurgled somewhere, and as John lurked closer he saw an artificial pond in the middle of the room. Palms and ferns grew around the walls and narrow paths, leading to several other premises.

_And Sherlock was mocking me for enjoying luxuries._

With all the money in the world, he would never have imagined buying such a stately home. His father maybe.

He raised his eyes to the high glass ceiling, providing an architectural masterwork. A white staircase led to an indoor gallery where a big screen broadcasted a news channel. In front of the glass railing, John saw someone else lying on the ground. Only this time, it seemed not to be a bodyguard as he observed the feminine curves of a woman in a blue dress.

Without wasting a thought, he sprinted up the stairs, taking two steps at a time. However, he didn’t let his attention slip as to miss any suspicious movements in the gallery. He realized the voices came from the telly. Kneeling down beside the woman who lay on her side, he carefully grabbed her shoulder. Long black hair obscured her features, but the touch invigorated her limp body. With a grunt, she rolled onto her back, dark brown eyes looking up at John. Brows furrowing, a flicker of panic flashed through her gaze.

“Who are you?” she asked, recoiling by instinct at the unknown man.

John’s gaze roved over the garden downstairs, worried that her sudden voice prompted the intruder to come back. But when he saw no movement, his eyes met her frightened look again. “My name is John Watson. I served with the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. What happened here?”

Her brown eyes skimmed his features, obviously considering if she could trust the stranger. Somehow, John seemed successful since she dropped her defenses to sit up, at once regretting her decision. Wincing at the sudden pain, a hand flew to the back of her head. “Someone hit me.”

“Did you see them?”

“No.”

John produced a small torch from the inside pocket of his jacket to check on the woman’s pupils. “You might have a concussion.”

The woman rubbed at her head. “Probably,” she agreed, her voice streaked with bitterness. “I’m Janine Hawkins, Magnussen’s PA.”

“I presume self-defense isn’t part of your CV.” John tried to coax the throbbing headache from the woman’s mind.

“No,” she huffed a small laugh.

“I’m looking for my friend, Sherlock Holmes. He was supposed to have an appointment with Mr. Magnussen.”

Her brows furled into a frown as she tried to remember what happened before she was attacked. “He’s not here. I would have seen him. Nobody’s to visit my boss without meeting me first.”

John’s hand gripped the Browning tighter at the statement. The clues narrowed down for Sherlock to be the intruder. But would he really knock Magnussen’s personal assistant out? The bodyguards without doubt, but not an uninvolved woman.

“Call the police,” he instructed Janine with determined military sobriety. Although he took a risk with including the police this needed to be reported. If Sherlock was indeed about to make an even worse blunder than deceiving John, he would stop the detective. And if that meant to reveal the compromising material about Mycroft Holmes, so be it. To a certain extent, the older Holmes cared for his brother, John understood, but Sherlock becoming a martyr for him was out of the question.

His right hand gripped his knee, pushing himself up to survey the several corridors leading from the garden. He offered a hand for Janine and helped her onto the nearby sofa where she fumbled with her mobile to follow John’s order.

“Where was Mr. Magnussen when you’ve last seen him?”

Janine looked up from the mobile’s display, rummaging her memory. “In the living area. He’s just finished his work.”

“Which way is it?”

“Downstairs to the right.”

John nodded and headed for the staircase before stopping at the banister. “Whatever you’ll hear, stay here and keep your head down.” People often tended to be too curious as to follow their natural instincts. And he didn’t want to get more innocents involved than necessary.

“All right,” she nodded, and John hurried down the stairs.

As advised he kept to the right, proceeding another dark corridor which ended in a modern furnished vestibule. Another staircase wound up to the second floor. John strained his ears for any telltale sounds as he looked upstairs. A thump, however, drew his attention away from the second floor to an open door in the vestibule. The noise betrayed no voices, but a gust blowing through the door and flapping it against the lock.

Cautious, he put one step in front of another. Contrary to the first hallway, a light blue carpet muffled his shoes. He pushed the door slowly open, more cool wind meeting him. It was odd since a fire roared in the chimney on the other side of the room. But a room divider full of books obscured his view to the window front on the left, causing him to assume that a window must stand open.

Before he could catch a glimpse around the corner of the room divider, he perceived whispered voices once again. His eyes flicked to the huge black screen, supposing this telly also might play tricks on him. Not until then did he notice that the words were muffled by the windows.

_Somebody’s outside._

Adrenaline rushed through him, spikes of flashes tensing his muscles. He took a steadying breath, fingers flexing around the butt of the Browning, a constant reminder of what Mycroft Holmes had asked of him.

He dared a careful glance around the edge and found Magnussen standing outside on the terrace. Thick curtains wafted with the breeze, obscuring John’s view to the person to whom the media mogul talked. John realized, much to his dismay, there was but one way to ascertain who threatened Magnussen so far as to even have his hands raised in defense. So he ducked down, head between hunched shoulders as he darted for the concealment of the burgundy curtain.

The voices got louder, and John finally discerned the distinct baritone of Sherlock. “… that you’ve made a deal with the devil.”

John’s heart drummed like a thunderous storm at this last clue that Sherlock indeed had forcefully intruded Appledore. “Fuck,” he hissed in a whisper, yet also aware that he could still save the man, prevent him from an enormous mistake.

Slapping the curtain aside, John nimbly stepped through the open French door, gun leveling at a yet unseen target. At a moment’s notice, the conversation on the terrace froze as did John when he detected a third person standing a few feet behind Sherlock.

“Mary?” John gaped when he beheld his ex-wife wearing an unfamiliar attire. Clad in black, she nearly blended into the dark shadows which the house cast on the terrace.

“John?” Obviously, she was surprised to meet her ex-husband here as well.

From the corner of his eyes, John saw Magnussen shift beside him, hands lowering a bit. He also hadn’t anticipated a further guest. John’s eyes flicked to Sherlock, an arm’s length in front of him, until his gaze wandered further to Mary with her arm outstretched. She held a gun, finger ready to pull the trigger.

For a moment, confusion overwhelmed John. Mere seconds ago, he prepared himself to reason Sherlock out of committing a crime and now, he saw a gun pointing at the detective.

“What the hell is going on?” he snarled, unable to contain his outrage anymore as suddenly a lifetime with his ex-wife crushed down on him, anew betrayed by layers of lies.

His eyes drifted to Sherlock as Mary failed to reply. A mix of amazement and relief sparkled in the mercurial gaze before it hardened into a glacial stare of despair. “Why did you follow me?” Sherlock disclosed the conflicted dichotomy of John coming to help him and being stupid enough to interfere with Magnussen once again.

“I thought that was clear.” John clenched his jaw to keep his rage at bay. After all they had been through, John had assumed they would solve the case together. Or at least he was hoping so. Hoped that Sherlock would have acknowledged his wrongs to accept John in his life. But John never truly considered their lives beyond the case. He had just drifted along the wave caused by the storm Sherlock epitomized. And then?

Sherlock’s piercing glare bored into John before roaming to the black metal shimmering in his dominant hand, pointing at his ex-wife. “My brother,” Sherlock wrinkled his nose in disapproval as he deduced the Browning.

Indignant about Sherlock’s deprecating attitude, John shot Mary a menacing glance. “Seems to me like you should be damn glad that I came.”

A dark chuckle from beside John tore them from their little domestic. “So Mr. Holmes is too much a coward to come for himself.”

“And provide you with a target?” John seethed with cynicism. At that moment, he understood Magnussen must have planned Sherlock getting to Appledore to decoy the older Holmes into a trap, lure him to his house. But he hadn’t expected for John to thwart his plans.

“How much he cares for you,” Magnussen turned to Sherlock, keeping an inscrutable expression with his lips twitching into a sardonic smile. He didn’t elaborate whether he meant Mycroft who didn’t care for Sherlock or John who actually did.

“Shut up,” John growled through clenched teeth. He couldn’t stand Magnussen’s presumptuous demeanor, mocking Sherlock for his loyalty and love for his older brother. If such derision demonstrated the recurring encounters of Sherlock with social behavior, it was no wonder he despised sentiment.

Resentment bubbled up in John, threatening to choke him at the stalemate. He stood amidst all the people who had deceived him. Yet his gun stayed pointed at his ex-wife, steady, belying a fallacy of calm. An inner turmoil raged through his chest, constricting his heart, as awareness crept into his mind that if he had to make a decision, he wouldn’t hesitate.

For now, he swallowed his irritation toward Sherlock as he focused on Mary. The smug amusement which usually danced in her blue eyes had faded for serious peril, revealing her true identity for the first time. “And you,” he snarled, disdainful loathing dripping from his voice. “What have I ever done to you? Why didn’t you just kill me and be done with it.”

“Too much involuntary attention.” Mary shrugged her shoulders, keeping her nonchalant poise.

“Ah yes,” scorn flashed through him, swapping the former disappointment about his ex-wife cheating on him with another man. “Moriarty would have found you.”

John sensed Sherlock’s astonished gaze as he so boldly confronted her with the truth. Mary blinked at the admission that her ex-husband was so much immersed in her past as to even know the name of her nemesis. “He will find me one way or the other.”

John tilted his lips downward, “Then why the waiting?”

“If he found me before my plan was accomplished I would have lost the game.”

“So you consider this a game?” Incredulity seeped into his voice at her cold-heartedness. He had known Mary for many years. She could be patronizing and dominant, but she never acted ruthlessly. “You considered _me_ a game?”

“Oh John, you always succumbed to illusions. You always ignored the truth. Your _PA_ seems to like games.” Vicious amusement danced in her gaze. “He willingly came here with me in hopes of outwitting me.”

John’s eyes snapped to Sherlock. He had presumed that Sherlock found a focal lead to nail down the media mogul. Apparently, his assumption was a half-truth since Sherlock faced the muzzle of a gun. John tilted his head, glaring at Magnussen. “At your command, I suppose?”

Magnussen still held his hands upright. His features hardened, betraying his miscalculation as he faced John with flashing glasses that reflected the light from the house.

“Her past was too well obscured by the government for you to recognize with whom you would wrap up the deal,” Sherlock interrupted, a hint of triumph twitching his lips into a victorious smile. “There’s always a bigger fish.”

All of a sudden, the scales fell from John’s eyes. Magnussen didn’t just want her to bring Sherlock to Appledore, he wanted to have her shoot the detective. “What does he hold over your head, Mary?”

“A subclause in our contract regarding Dimmock’s buyout, like an adhesion contract. It states that for the following year he can decide what I should do with _my_ money after dismantling the two companies.”

“So he’s blackmailing you?”

“He wanted me to bring your Mr. Holmes to Appledore, make it look like as if the detective wanted to kill him, take revenge. I was supposed to protect Magnussen.”

_Supposed?_ John saw Magnussen’s raised hands from his peripheral view. As the notion settled into his mind, sluggish and sinister, the bleak reality engulfed John with a tremble before uttering his misgiving. “Did you accomplish your initial plan?”

Her shaded eyes flicked between Sherlock and Magnussen, divulging a spark glinting in the dark with a hint of something John couldn’t put together. Despair? Vacillation?

“Not yet,” she replied, the intimidation hanging in the air, dense and insurmountable. As long as Magnussen had a finger in the pie she was bound to his goodwill.

_Indeed a miscalculation_. A small flicker of victory glimmered in John’s chest, especially when pictures of Magnussen looming over Sherlock popped into his mind. Sympathy was the least of what he felt.

“Do you think she will stop with me?” Magnussen’s smugness mingled with spite at John’s unawareness.

“I don’t understand,” John said. Magnussen was the only one who stood in her way.

“You should put that on a t-shirt,” Magnussen chuckled with a nasty contortion of his lips.

John blinked at the audacity before the answer struck him. “You came here to kill us all.”

“No,” Mary cautiously rolled her shoulder, the weight of the gun in her hand overstraining her arm. “Not all of you.”

“Just me and Magnussen,” Sherlock corrected John. “She never assumed you to show up here.”

“A blackmailer and his victim enmeshing in a struggle wherein they shoot each other,” Mary expounded, her face now completely hidden in the shadows of the night after taking a step backward.

Panic seized John with a cold grip. Sherlock knew this all along, yet he decided to go with her. He must have had a plan. As if in a silence plea, he looked at Sherlock in the hope to elucidate his strategy. But instead, Sherlock raised his arms higher to fold his hands behind his head, the black suit jacket straining around his chest.

“And now?” John snarled to his ex-wife, steadying his position for the shoot. “Do you intend to shoot me as well to finally carry out your plan?”

“Moriarty has believed me dead for a long time. If he learns about me being alive before I get to my money, everything will go down the drain.”

John didn’t fail to recognize Mary avoiding his question. Although she had no qualms about assassinating Magnussen and Sherlock, about John, though, it seemed to be a different matter. John blinked at the tacit admission. He realized his ex-wife actually had cared for him, and in a questionable sense, maybe even loved him. “Mary?” he husked at the truth, conveying the plea to stop this madness.

“It’s too late, John.”

The words echoed in the emptiness of his mind as his eyes drifted to Sherlock, anguish reflecting in the cobalt blue about a choice he never wanted to make. Despair flashed through John, pressing all the air out of his lungs. But before he could act on his decision, Sherlock knelt down in a fluent movement. John, at first confused at the sudden motion, didn’t notice the red dot appearing on Mary’s forehead. The glow weaved like a gleaming red thread through the semi-darkness. John’s eyes widened as he realized that someone must stand hidden behind him and Magnussen, leveling their gun at the intruder.

_The second bodyguard._

Although Magnussen seemed to be intimidated, he showed little fear of his life, retaining his aloof smugness. And above, John had only found one of his bodyguards. A triumphant smile curled at the media mogul’s lips.

Then, everything happened in a split-second as John darted forward and crouched down as well with intent to protect Sherlock. He grabbed the man by his shoulder, yanking at the suit jacket to shove him out of the firing line. Losing his balance, he tumbled over and fell on his bad leg, pain searing through him. John spat a curse at his ineptness. His eyes flicked over his shoulder to search for the origin of the red streak when a muzzle flash illuminated the concealment of the second bodyguard standing in the shadows next to the terrace.

The shot rang in the air, reverberating in the vastness of the Magnussen’s property. But when John looked up to find Mary, he saw that she had dodged the bullet by leaping to the side just in time. For a second, John was staggered by which direction he should pay attention. However, before opting for the bodyguard, Mary leveled her gun in a swift move.

Another shot resounded, thunderous and deafening, followed by a thud. Mary’s unerring bullet had found her target between his eyes.

Silence engulfed them as the last echo faded, only the heavy breathing of shock interrupting the treacherous piece with sharp puffs.

Eternity stretched in this deceptive calm. Ignoring the pain in his knee, John jumped up, once again raising his gun at his ex-wife. She had just presented the final proof of a truth John suspected for a few weeks now, but deep inside denied the fact. The dichotomy of his mind let him sway between acknowledgment and disavowal since he never saw her like this before. For him, she had always portrayed the caring wife helping her disabled husband. She was patronizing, yes, but how could he have perceived her being a cold-blooded murderer?

Beside him, Sherlock struggled to leap up to his feet while Magnussen mirrored the detective’s earlier pose by folding his hands behind his head. His features disclosed undisguised horror for the first time, the smugness all but gone as he realized that his last defense was bleeding to death on his lawn.

Mary, still obscured by the darkness of the shadows on the terrace, stepped into the light flushing from the living room. Her pale face provided a sinister contrast to her black attire. Once again, the muzzle of her gun aimed at Sherlock.

“Don’t do this,” John pleaded, conveying his determination of pulling the trigger at any moment if she wouldn’t drop her plan.

“You know I have to.”

The second a third gunshot cut through the air in this evening, Sherlock shoved John aside.

Tripping, John kept his tight grip on the Browning when a fourth bullet was released from its magazine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There’s but one chapter left to post. I’m still editing and rewriting chapter 10, and then it needs beta-reading, so I hope to update at the beginning of September at the latest.
> 
> If you want to catch up with me you’ll also find me on [Tumblr](http://nymeria578.tumblr.com/).


	10. Redemption

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I’m so sorry for the delay, but finally I’ve finished this fic. It’s always a feeling between joy and sadness. A huge thanks goes to my wonderful beta [GhostTari](http://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostTari/pseuds/GhostTari) who provided her invaluable help and cheered me up in times I desperately needed solace. If you still find some mistakes I’ll take the blame.
> 
> And as always thanks for all the kudos and lovely comments! They’re making my day :)

A high-pitched droning sound roared in John’s ears, blending with the rapid-fire drumming of his blood rushing through his system. The edges of his view blurred with a tunnel vision fueled by adrenaline flooding his body. Deep inside, he heard his own heavy breathing as his eyes sought Sherlock.

To his surprise, the man stood beside him, shock and bewilderment flashing in his pale blue eyes. Sheer terror drowning his mind, John grabbed Sherlock’s lapels. His gaze roved over the slender frame. As if in disbelief, he touched, palpated each vital spot, his mind playing tricks as he searched for a swelling gush of blood. His dominant hand still buzzed from the shot which had released the bullet from the Browning. Not until he didn’t find any redness seeping through Sherlock’s clothes did John stop his ministrations.

“I’m fine,” Sherlock grabbed John’s hands, providing a much-needed anchor as relief washed over John. In the sparse light of the terrace, Sherlock’s eyes shifted in a mercurial haze before they drifted to the scenery behind John.

By instinct, John turned around, already expecting the ghastly picture portrayed on the paver. Magnussen had fallen backward, his glasses flung away at the impact of the projectile. The small red dot between his eyes was an illusion. John knew with the caliber of Mary’s gun, half of the man’s skull was ripped open at the back of his head.

Blood and cerebral matter had splattered on the terrace, still pouring from the hole with receding gushes. John looked at the abominable image in front of him but didn’t feel pity for the man. Initially, he became a doctor to save lives. A good balance of empathy and professionalism made him a good surgeon. With the gruesome memories of Magnussen's actions in Baker Street fresh in his mind, John wasn't sure he could uphold his Hippocratic oath. The man would have used Sherlock without remorse, so John didn’t regret his death.

A quiet groan tore him back from his sinister imagery. Mary tumbled backward into the shadows again, pressing a palm on her left upper arm. John’s eyes widened as he recognized that his round had found its target. She cursed under her breath as she examined the wound. A grazing shot as John diagnosed from the distance. If Sherlock hadn’t shoved him aside, his bullet would have hit into her heart. Cold sweat beaded on his neck at the realization.

Sherlock’s fingers curled around his hand, speaking of reassurance, as he squeezed John gently. His other hand released John’s tight grip on the Browning, easing the tension off of each finger. He didn’t refuse the tender caress, let the man take the gun from John. His world was shattered at the brutal honesty Mary had just bestowed on him. A ruthless candor she never showed during the time of their marriage.

Sherlock took a step forward, leveling the Browning at Mary the same moment she raised her uninjured arm. “Know when you’re beaten,” Sherlock drawled, unflinching at the muzzle in front of him.

Mary snorted, her patronizing demeanor pursing her lips. “Oh, Mr. Holmes, if you take one more step I swear I will kill you.”

“Then why haven’t you already?” Sherlock asked, and her eyes flicked between the two men.

“Sometimes it needs a dagger – a scalpel wielded with precision and no remorse to get rid of human scum.”

“You never intended on killing Sherlock?” John interfered.

“I wouldn’t say _never_.”

“And now?”

“Against Magnussen’s presumption I was very aware of his little sub-clause. So I decided on a business too tempting for him.” Her lips curled into a grim smile. “I bought the gasoline pipelines in Serbia using Lord Moran as a stooge to not draw too much attention to me. And now I’m sitting in the spider’s cobweb, waiting for his return to let the trap spring.”

“Neat,” Sherlock praised her strategy. “You used Magnussen’s vanity against him.”

John arched his brows, incredulous about the compliment. But when he looked at Sherlock, he observed the disgust for the media mogul whose blood still oozed from the wound. Just because Magnussen never sullied his hands by blackmailing his victims didn’t make him one jot better than any other serial killer; let alone his sexual assault on Sherlock. The detective tried to nail the man down and failed on several occasions but not Mary.

In the distance they heard the first wails of sirens, alerting them that Janine had followed John’s instructions. Within mere minutes the police would charge Appledore, and the house would be overrun by constables.

For a long moment, John looked at Mary, trying to deduce her deliberation as only Sherlock could. Her hesitance spoke volumes. “You’re not going to kill us.”

“There is no point,” she squinted at the muzzle of the Browning. Even if she might eliminate Sherlock John wouldn’t stay idle. Acting without due consideration could ruin her plan. “I still have some compromising photos of your brother and Moriarty shaking hands. There’ll always be another Magnussen licking their lips to publish them.” Her eyes flashed with fierce determination to conjure a threat more menacing than her outstretched arm right now. “So if you don’t stop prying I will use them, and the second time we meet I won’t have mercy.”

A spark of victory flickered in Sherlock’s gaze, and John was sure that the detective took the warning as a challenge rather than an intimidation. He lowered his arm, loosening the grip on the trigger in connivance. John realized that the tactic was brilliant. Before Sherlock provoked a fight wherein all partakers might die, he let Mary go, watch if her plan would succeed. Either way, in the aftermath would remain just one dragon for him to slay.

At the gesture, Mary retreated further into the shadows of the property. Her gun still leveled at Sherlock as she merged with the darkness.

John narrowed his eyes for a while, adrenaline slowly fading which left him dizzy. He wanted to sit down at the emotional exhaustion. But there was no time for weakness as they listened to the sirens now coming to a halt in front of the house, tires grating on the gravel parking lot.

His gaze dropped to the Browning in Sherlock’s hand. “We have to get rid of this.”

“No need,” Sherlock replied in a matter-of-fact tone.

“I know that the bullet was fired from a different gun, but the police don’t. At least put the bloody thing down.”

Instead of heeding John’s advice, Sherlock tucked the Browning behind the waistband of his trousers. A small smile tugged at his lips as John grunted, annoyed at the detective’s smug defiance.

Approaching footsteps clattered in the vast mansion as well as outside of the property. They heard shouted instructions inside the house when John’s worry dissolved in the wonder of snowflakes beginning to dance around them. Fueled by adrenaline, he hadn’t sensed the coldness creeping through the many layers of his clothing.

“How fitting,” Sherlock’s baritone had turned low, a mellow whisper like a soothing balm over John’s racing mind. “Tomorrow’s Christmas.”

“ _Freeze_!”

A sergeant accompanied by several constables stepped with outstretched arms onto the terrace. John and Sherlock lifted their hands in defense. The sergeant scanned the area, his gaze lingering on the two bleeding corpses.

“I’m Sherlock Holmes. Who is the detective inspector in charge?”

The sergeant frowned at the unusual request but decided to ignore Sherlock’s question. “What happened here?”

“Obviously, Magnussen and his bodyguard were shot,” Sherlock drawled, annoyed at the oblivious sergeant. “Oh, and I should add that we didn’t do it. The murderer’s just left a couple of minutes ago. Now, would you be so kind as to tell me who the DI in charge is?”

John, who had caught a glimpse of Sherlock’s disparaging and flippant behavior during their first case with DI Donovan, arched his brows at the unusually harsh baritone. “Sherlock,” he tried to reason the man. Being a suspect in a murder and disrespect didn’t go well together.

“What the bloody hell is going on?” A deep voice roared over the terrace from the French door, interrupting Sherlock’s exasperation.

A man with salt and pepper hair stepped onto the veranda, clutching at his overcoat to keep the cold at bay. “Greg,” John husked in relief at the sight of his friend.

“John?” Greg stopped short, his eyes flicking to the dead body of Magnussen and back to his friend. “What are you doing here?”

Cautiously, John lowered his arms, keeping a wary eye on the sergeant who was still leveling his gun at him. “It’s a long story.”

Greg’s glare snapped to Sherlock. “Your brother was adamant that I should come here if a 999 call arose from this specific place.”

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders, dropping his hands as well. “I worked on a case. Mycroft is just stubborn, as always.”

“Wait,” John interrupted. “What? You two know each other?”

“He’s my brother’s watchdog.”

“Oi, not so cheeky or I’ll let you do the paperwork all night,” Greg wagged a finger at the detective.

“Sir?” The sergeant asked over his shoulder.

“You can lower your gun,” Greg replied. “I can vouch for these two idiots.”

The sergeant nodded to the constables, indicating for them to follow him suit as he walked over to Magnussen. “I’ll call forensics then.”

“Do that,” Greg said, his hand pressing the lapels of his overcoat together against the chilly breeze. “And you two,” he pointed with a finger at John and Sherlock. “Get inside. I’m freezing to death.”

Brows furrowing, John followed his friend into the living room. Why hadn’t Greg recognized Sherlock at the Hurlingham Club? Was he also engaged in a greater plan, deluding John? “How long have you known each other?”

“Far too long,” Greg sighed. “A genius with a predilection for recreational drug use didn’t go unnoticed by me.”

“Three years and two months to be precise,” Sherlock loosened the loop of his scarf as the heat from the fire in the chimney seeped through his clothes.

“Then why didn’t you recognize each other at the polo match?”

“Because I didn’t meet him,” Sherlock replied, irritation creeping into his voice, resonating with an unspoken _obviously_.

But for Greg rang the bells. “Your PA!”

“Yes.”

“I’ve only seen him from behind. He looked familiar, though. But Sherlock Holmes works as a consulting detective and avoids such events at all costs.” Greg shot Sherlock an inquisitive look.

“It was for the case,” Sherlock defended himself, the baritone now rueful as he was reminded of his deception.

“Well, that’s a story you both can tell me over a pint once we’re finished here. For now, I have a shitload of work to do,” he heaved a sigh at the upcoming reports and paperwork. “And that’s at Christmas.”

“I see, your new girlfriend suits you,” Sherlock roved his gaze over his friend, finding clues for the deduction. “It’s the first time in years that you don’t want to rush into a case at Christmas to avoid your now-ex-wife. But I can assure you, we have little to tell.”

Greg frowned at the piercing eyes of the detective. “Go ahead.”

“Seemingly, Magnussen was shot by one of his victims.”

“Sherlock?” The question conveyed a mild warning to be more precise.

“We didn’t see their face since they wore a black ski mask, but according to their body structure and movements I’d say it was a woman.”

“Usually you provide more evidence,” Greg rubbed his chin, glancing at John with a quizzical brow.

John shrugged his shoulders. He didn’t like lying to his best friend, especially after meeting Sherlock who bared him of all his social lies. But he understood Sherlock’s decision. “I could barely detect an outline in the darkness and the employees were unconscious when we arrived. I instructed Magnussen’s PA Janine to call the police when she came to herself again while Sherlock had already darted for the living room.” Although he regretted the fibbing, he just hoped Janine had been too dazed from the knockout as to realize he came alone in search of Sherlock.

Pursing his lips, Greg nodded. Apparently, he believed John’s words more than Sherlock’s. John wondered if he could explain his friend all the correct facts at some point in the future. And if Greg would then chafe at him? This situation reminded him of Sherlock omitting important information to protect someone he loved.

“All right,” Greg produced his mobile to make a call. “There’s a police car waiting for you at the front door. A constable will bring you to New Scotland Yard where Sally Donovan will take your accurate testimony. Unfortunately, I have to finish the mess here first.”

“Thanks, Greg,” John knew if it were not for his friend the whole procedure would have ended for them far less pleasant and more time-consuming.

“You owe me that pint,” Greg gave John a pointed look, clearly curious about how John ended up with Sherlock.

***

Their drive back to central London didn’t take as long as John expected, but the silence in the police car pressed on his shoulders like a dead weight. The truth about Mary, despite his suspicions for several weeks, took him still off-guard. There had always remained a barrier, blocking the two realities of hearsay and observation. The same applied to his posttraumatic stress disorder. Before a deployment, all soldiers were schooled about the possibility. They knew the risk. And yet, no one could prepare them for the truth they encountered in war.

It seemed that Mary became his war now – his’ and Sherlock’s. If her plan succeeded and she could get rid of Moriarty they would meet again. So far, he reckoned up Sherlock’s character would not give in easily.

An imperceptible shudder prickled down his spine at the outcome of such an encounter. The possibility of how quickly their last confrontation might have turned out differently gripped him to the marrow. His mind ran several worst case scenarios wherein the bullet of Mary struck Sherlock directly into his heart. The memory still paralyzed him as he saw the picture of a dying detective on the terrace in front of his mind’s eye.

Next to him, Sherlock seemed unperturbed by those events, and once again John remembered his words.

_Sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side_.

John fidgeted in his seat, trying to calm his inner turmoil. Did he really misjudge Sherlock so far as to believe he felt the same way John did? John didn’t mourn Magnussen’s death, yet it affected him. Each death had affected him back in Afghanistan – be it a civilian or a soldier who died.

In the darkness of the car, Sherlock typed away on his mobile, the screen illuminating his pale features. They had met each other for the first time in weeks on the veranda, but Sherlock's reaction was rather noncommittal. And even now, Sherlock turned inward, shutting John out. His behavior amplified the contrast to the man John encountered at Leicester Square, prompting him to doubt.

John was torn from his rumination when the police car pulled up at New Scotland Yard with DI Donovan already waiting for them. Her pose of crossed arms in front of her chest disclosed her adverse attitude as if scolding a child. But Sherlock, unruffled, kept to his false smiles. He knew that one of his bickers with the DI would only prolong their testimony.

And that was how it came that they left New Scotland Yard two hours later. The police car, which had waited, drove them to Baker Street.

They arrived shortly before midnight and the usual susurrus of the day had calmed down. The constable pulled over and looked through the rear view mirror at both his guests. “Do I need to drive you to your hotel, Dr. Watson?”

Apparently, the man wanted to call it a day and head home at this late hour. “Well…” John hesitated, reminding himself of the reason he wanted to visit 221B in the first place.

But before John could falter at his own fear, Sherlock took the decision from him. “Fancy a cup of tea?”

Incredulous, John gaped at the man in the dim light of the car. After Sherlock’s restrained behavior, John hadn’t anticipated an invitation. “Tea sounds great.” It did sound great, indeed, as he was bone-tired. Tea would invigorate him to finally pick up his courage and have this talk with Sherlock.

A shy smile twitched at Sherlock’s lips before he climbed out of the car and headed with long strides to the black door. John watched how the police car drove in direction of Regent’s Park. As Sherlock fumbled with the keys, he stepped beside the man, his hand draping over Sherlock’s to stop him unlocking the door. “I need to know something before we go in,” John said, the warmth of his hand seeping through Sherlock’s leather gloves.

Confused, Sherlock furled his brows. “What is it?”

“I understand why you initially wanted to come to my hotel suite.” John remembered the deception, ignoring the nagging sensation of doubt in the back of his mind. “You could have gotten your information and been done with it. But instead, you stayed that night and even agreed on the week. Why?”

“I thought that was obvious.”

“Not to me.”

A faint crimson crept into Sherlock’s cheekbones as he blushed for the first time since they met. “When I saw you at Leicester Square, I was rather amused at your anger aimed at yourself. But after driving you to the hotel, I observed that you lived in a world where you didn’t deem yourself to fit into. You are like a mirror image for me. I saw myself. Someone interesting enough as to become accepted by society. I considered leaving as soon as I got the needed information, but…” Sherlock stopped midsentence as the red intensified.

“But?” John pressed.

“I find you very attractive. And since you mistook me for a prostitute I jumped at the chance. Nobody had ever accepted me the way I am. But you did.” Despite his ruse, Sherlock had stayed true to himself, only contorting the truth about his profession. John realized that this was probably the most emotional confession he would get from Sherlock and huffed a sympathetic smile. “I just don’t understand why you kept in touch with me after what I’ve done to you?”

“I thought that was obvious,” John reiterated, amused secrecy tugging at his lips. Sherlock’s blush faded for a scowl at his inability to deduce the meaning before John suggested, “Let’s get in.”

When they stepped over the threshold Mrs. Hudson awaited them at the landing, wielding a frying pan. “Oh, it’s you,” she said relieved, lowering her make-shift weapon. “I heard a rattling at the door, but when no one entered, I worried it might be a burglar.”

“No burglar, Mrs. Hudson.” Sherlock shrugged his shoulders in a tacit apology.

She put the pan onto the nearby armchair, readjusting her dressing gown over her nighty. “Young man, you scared me to death.”

“Obviously not,” Sherlock replied, his cheekiness returning.

“I became anxious after Mycroft dropped in to ask where you’ve gone. What happened?”

Sherlock sighed as he observed the genuine concern in her voice. He put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Nothing to worry about, Mrs. Hudson. We solved a case which took longer than expected.”

“I see.” This drew her attention to John. “You found him.”

“With the help of Mr. Holmes,” John said with a fond smile. “I arrived just in time to prevent him from an enormous mistake.”

“I was never in danger,” Sherlock gave himself airs, his bottom lip jutting forward in sulky fashion. “I had a backup plan.”

“No, you didn’t,” John defied him. “It’s how you get your kicks, isn’t it? You risk your life to prove you’re clever.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because you’re an idiot.” Despite the harsh words, John’s eyes crinkled with excited amusement. Even though Sherlock might have pouted mere seconds ago, he couldn’t resist John’s contagious delight and an appreciative smile curled around his lips.

“So, you’re moving in now, I take it?” Mrs. Hudson asked, hopeful.

John’s buoyancy dissolved into a pensive frown, eyes flicking to Sherlock. “It’s not decided yet.”

“Did I miss something?” Sherlock squinted with suspicion, trying to deduce the secretiveness between John and Mrs. Hudson.

“Well…” Mrs. Hudson looked uncertain, afraid she might have spilled the beans. “Dr. Watson has bought the house with all its flats last week.”

“What?” Sherlock snapped, a piercing stare shooting to John. His ignorance had rebuilt his defenses.

Mrs. Hudson flinched at the tart question. Picking the frying pan up from the armchair, she fiddled with the handle, hesitant as if she had just provoked a domestic even though the two men didn’t share the flat yet. She shot John an apologetic look. “Well, I’ll leave you to it then.”

Sherlock glowered at the petite figure as she shut the door to 221A before his eyes darted back to John. “What’s going on?”

Instead of giving in to the detective’s sulking mode, John kept an even keel. If he mirrored Sherlock’s irritation the man would get hold of the wrong end of the stick. “I’d rather not talk to you in the landing, standing between the possibility of running away or actually having this tea.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, mind racing as he considered John’s word. He wasn’t used to such serenity. Usually, his terseness prompted him to rub someone up the wrong way. “All right,” he exhaled, but his suspicion remained. “I’ll make you that tea.”

Upstairs, Sherlock hurried away to the kitchen to flick the kettle. John left him alone for his brooding mood to settle down again and instead headed for the living room. The wall with all the notes on Magnussen’s case still displayed a reminder of the awful day. Mental images of Sherlock in Magnussen’s place bleeding on the terrace with half his skull ripped away would haunt him the next couple of days. He stepped onto the sofa and tore Mary’s photo off the wall. The truth still hurt and deep inside, he hoped they would never encounter her again because next time he would have to make a definite decision.

Crumpling the picture, he flung it into the wastepaper bin next to the desk. When he had signed the divorce papers, he never imagined meeting his ex-wife under such peculiar circumstances.

“A wife feeling cheated could get nasty, but turning out to be an assassin – how often does that happen?” John mumbled, dark humor tinting his voice with sarcasm.

“It’s because you are addicted to a certain lifestyle,” Sherlock replied to the rhetorical question as he set down two steaming teacups on the coffee table in front of the sofa. “You’re abnormally attracted to dangerous situations and people. So is it truly such a surprise that the woman you’ve fallen in love with conforms to that pattern?”

For a long moment, John didn’t move. His eyes lingered on the delicate porcelain as the fingers of his left hand itched with the tremor which he suppressed at the man’s blunt deduction. He had never considered being addicted to danger. However, remembering the day they had chased an innocent criminal, he acknowledged that he hadn’t felt this alive for a very long time. Even today, with the adrenaline faded from his system, he still sensed the buzzing stir tickling under his skin.

“So you need to solve crimes as an alternative to get high, and I am attracted to danger,” John huffed, shaking his head in disbelief. He stood in the middle of Sherlock’s living room, recalling his crippled life as a businessman not fitting into societal norms. And now, he could by no means imagine a life without Sherlock. “What a duo we would make.”

“Is that why you acquired the house?” Sherlock lounged into the soft cushion to sip at his tea, sharp eyes locking with John over the rim of his cup.

“I don’t want you to see it as an obligation,” John defended himself being the new owner of Baker Street 221. “When I visited you the last time I rang the doorbell of Mrs. Hudson. I was worried whether you wanted to meet me. So I asked her to give you the suit. She was so nice to invite me to tea, and we talked a bit. It was then when I learned that the owner of the house wanted to renovate and sell it. Of course, they wanted the tenants to move out first. Mrs. Hudson didn’t tell you because you just moved in, and she hoped there was still a chance to stay. She showed me the lease contract, but I saw no way for both of you to stay. So I bought the house.”

“But how?”

John’s lips curled in a fond smile as he found Sherlock’s obliviousness rather endearing. “As you pointed out a few weeks ago, I ran a limited liability company. Even though Mary dismantled the firm, I kept my personal assets.”

“Oh,” Sherlock whispered as an epiphany struck him. “Of course. Mary never wanted to wipe you out financially.”

“It seemed so.” For a moment, John’s gaze clouded with remorse before he tore himself from his gloomy thought and shrugged out of his jacket. “I used my last bits to buy the house.”

“Are you out of your mind?” Annoyance crept into Sherlock’s baritone, though John understood that he wasn’t mad at John for interfering with Sherlock’s life, but mad at him for spending all his money to purchase 221.

John huffed a warm laugh. Sherlock’s confusion arose from his incomprehension on sentiment. “Not quite. Estates are as good an investment as any other property. I might not have the money on my bank account anymore, but it’s still there.”

“And what about your own surgery?”

“I’ll find employment,” John draped his jacket over the desk before walking over to Sherlock and sitting down on the sofa as well.

“That doesn’t make sense,” Sherlock folded his hands in his lap, wary, shutting John out.

“I don’t want you to feel obligated. I appointed Mrs. Hudson as sort of housekeeper in exchange for her life estate, though I told her she mustn’t clean 221B.” John shot Sherlock a pointed look, a mischievous grin tugging at his lips.

“So you want me to pay rent?”

“Yes, of course.” John knew that Sherlock wouldn’t accept this offer otherwise.

Silence settled in the flat as Sherlock considered John’s suggestion. “Mrs. Hudson said you wanted to move in as well. 221C is out of the question. The basement flat is too damp with mold in the corners.”

“As I said, I don’t want you to feel as if meeting an obligation only because I bought the house. But…” John wavered at his proposal, once again fear of rejection overwhelming him.

“You want to move into 221B?”

John nodded, his eyes glued to Sherlock’s interlaced fingers. He had mulled over this time and again since Sherlock’s deception still nagged at his mind. Today’s events even proved further that Sherlock wasn’t accustomed to being part of a couple, playing a lone hand although they had worked on the case together in the last weeks. But the time in the Shangri-La taught John one thing: to shed your own skin wasn’t easy, especially when you wore it for a long time. If Sherlock accepted his proposal, so John hoped, they might overcome their past and revive what they had lost in the hotel suite.

“As a flatmate,” John answered quickly before Sherlock would dismiss his suggestion with a flourish of his hand.

“Don’t be stupid, John.”

The reprimand made John’s head jolt up, meeting Sherlock’s ever-shifting eyes in the dimly lit flat. He found confused frustration reflecting in the pale blue and John’s heart leaped into his throat. Even prepared for the possibility of a rejection, John stumbled over his own words, “I…”

“ _I_ betrayed you. _I_ am the one who is to blame for you losing everything.” Disbelief strangled the words as Sherlock nearly choked on them. “Why would you still want to be with me?”

John huffed a warm laugh at the obviousness that Sherlock didn’t see. “Because I’m in love with you.”

Eternity stretched between them as they locked widening eyes with each other at the hitherto unspoken truth. John remembered their time in the sanctuary of the hotel suite where they had danced around each other with ease. The words had budded in his mind back then, nourished and blossomed, and now he couldn’t hold them back anymore. “And it’s not true. I didn’t lose everything. I found you.” John stopped before his voice turned into a whisper, “I was so alone, and I owe you so much.”

Sherlock faltered at the confession, and John observed that it was indeed difficult for the man to reciprocate the passion with which John spoke. Affection overwhelming him, John realized that he had rendered the agitated storm called Sherlock Holmes speechless.

Sherlock ducked his head, biting his bottom lip in despair of finding a logical answer, a mere shadow of his confident self from the hotel suite. Sympathy washed over John, pooled into the pit of his stomach as he dared to lean over. He put a timid finger under Sherlock’s chin to raise his gaze from the lap.

“May I?” John asked, Sherlock’s rules yet reminiscent in his mind.

Sherlock’s eyes widened, but he nodded. “Yes.”

After his private concert in St. James’s Church, Sherlock had taken the lead. A stormy decision as though afraid if he would have hesitated one more second the chance would never have come back. But this time, John knew, he needed to take the reins since Sherlock still clung to his self-reproach.

So John’s hand wandered over a sharp cheekbone, knuckles stroking in a tender caress to comb his fingers through the tamed locks of Sherlock’s black hair. He pushed gently at the back of his head to finally meet those plush lips with a chaste kiss. The brush of skin remained innocent as if testing the waters before Sherlock sat back to roll his tongue over his bottom lip, chasing John’s taste.

“I’ve never kissed anybody before,” Sherlock confessed, shy and nervous, as a blush painted his cheeks. “It always felt like crossing a certain line. I never struck up a real relationship, never was interested in.”

Warmth seeped into John’s heart at the revelation. The avowal bared Sherlock’s trust in John, disclosing he never trusted anybody enough as to bond with them. “So, I was your first?” John asked with a teasing smile.

“I wasn’t a virgin, John.” Sherlock pouted in a mock-play.

“A kiss-virgin,” John nodded, determined. “I was your first.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” the baritone reverberated against John’s chest, a nearly imperceptible chuckle resounding at his ribcage as John recognized Sherlock’s flirtatious behavior.

John responded with a short snicker before Sherlock slid down, sprawling on the sofa and resting his head on a pillow against the armrest. Large hands grabbed John’s shoulders, mindful in touching the gnarled flesh hidden by clothes as to not inflict an inadvertent stab of pain. He tugged gently, and John landed with a rather ungainly lump half on top of Sherlock while his back pressed against the soft confinement of the backrest.

For a moment, the flat engulfed in silence before they burst into a giggle. John was brimming with mirth since he had achieved to lift Sherlock’s spirits, let alone his own relief. Just like that, they found their way back to the easy dancing around each other.

As John pressed flush against Sherlock, sharing the same pillow, he felt the weight of the day overwhelming him. Within the cozy incarceration of Sherlock’s body, John snaked his right arm around the man’s slender waist as though afraid if he opened his eyes the man would be gone again, only leaving a memory of a beautiful dream.

He dipped his head, closing the gap between them to place another chaste kiss on the seductive mouth. Sherlock responded with a little moan, parting his lips in invitation. The man’s long leg came up and curled around John’s thigh as if he was equally worried that John might disappear any moment.

“Stay with me?” Sherlock’s sultry baritone vibrated against John’s sensitive skin.

“God yes.”

John probed his tongue past those luscious lips, tasting the faint flavor of Sherlock’s tea. The man sucked at the tip before mouthing his bottom lip to release it with a light scrape of his teeth. A groan evaporated into the air, and John pressed himself further against Sherlock, but not to provoke more than relishing this newly found kiss. He wanted to melt with Sherlock, to never let him go again. The caress spoke of fear and relief, reflecting the things John had lost, but would never miss since he had Sherlock now.

However, exhaustion crept in as he relaxed more and more. The tension of the last hours swept away by a riptide of emotional desire.

Chasing that usually sharp tongue, now pliant and soft against his lips, John drifted into a content subconscious where only sensation mattered. Sherlock’s body radiated with heat and soothed him while John’s muscles slackened.

As hard as he fought to stay awake, the kiss lulled him to the enticing edge of a dreamy haze.

***

Light tickled at his eyelids while his subconscious waned, dissolving into reality. Despite missing a blanket, John felt warm, unwilling to shake off the last remnant of sleep. Yet, his body betrayed him, numb and stiff. Involuntary, he stretched his limbs as his mind drifted into wakefulness, just to jolt awake at the sudden aching in his muscles.

John’s eyes fluttered open, realizing he hadn’t moved in the night. As pleasant and comfortable he felt when falling asleep, snuggled up to Sherlock, their position wasn’t made for a longer nap. But he had literally embraced the possibilities of pain, instead of leaving 221B.

His eyes roamed through the living room with its slightly old-fashioned furnishing. The curtains bore a gap in the middle to flood the flat with bright sunlight. Flakes of snow whirled in front of the window in a fierce waltz, reminding John of what day it was.

Beside him, Sherlock’s breathing came deep and even. His curls had won the struggle with the hair product, now falling in a tousled mess onto the pillow and the man’s face. John couldn’t resist the urge as he flexed his hand before tucking an unruly strand back onto the dark cloud. He still marveled at the beauty of the man.

_Like what you see?_ Sherlock had asked on their first night, exposing the lean expanse of his bared chest. John remembered his parched mouth, barely able to speak. He couldn’t believe that after Magnussen showed up in his hotel suite with all the following debacle, John actually was allowed to touch those supple curls again. His fingers ghosted over the alabaster skin of Sherlock’s cheek to the plush curve of his lips. A shudder went through his body as he also remembered the time when he returned to his home in Glasgow, more broken than ever. His sister had been his sole consoler in those gloomy days.

“Shit!” John hissed, jolting up as his consciousness caught up with him that he hadn’t sent Harry a single message since their way parted yesterday.

Sherlock, wrested from his slumber, groaned at the sudden movement. He blinked several times in confusion.

“Sorry,” John apologized. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“What happened?” Sherlock flung his arm over his eyes to protect them against the brightness.

“I forgot to text my sister.” John swung his legs over the edge of the sofa, climbing over Sherlock. The soft cushion dipped at his weight so that Sherlock rolled on his side, too lazy to make room.

“And I thought you’re a grown-up,” Sherlock teased with a widening smirk.

While grabbing his jacket and rummaging his pockets for his mobile, John looked over his shoulder, quirking an eyebrow. “I promised her to get in touch so she knows what to do with my luggage.”

“She came with you?”

“Yes,” John said, absent-minded, as he swiped over the screen of his mobile to see two received messages.

_Okay. I get that not answering might be a good thing. But at least one message would be nice. – Harry Watson._

_Do I have to expect a happy announcement by the end of the week? – Mycroft Holmes_.

John’s brows furrowed, flabbergasted at the obvious innuendo. Was the man surveilling him? Or why did he come up with the assumption of John still being with his little brother? Considering the man’s position in the British government, a slight panic tickled at the nape of his neck.

“Oh God, your brother is texting me.”

“Ignore him,” Sherlock, bored by his brother’s interference, stretched his lithe body before sitting up. “Mycroft has the tendency to poke his nose into matters that are none of his business. Or wait! Did he offer you money?”

“Why would he do that?”

“Too bad we could’ve shared. If he’ll offer you money in the near future just take it.”

“What? No!” John huffed a laugh, unable to decide whether Sherlock indeed expected from his brother to pay John as a babysitter or if this was another tease. “He asked me for my help yesterday precisely because he didn’t pay me.”

“He’s never trusting of his own secret service,” Sherlock wrinkled his nose, but the meaning beyond the words struck John. Mycroft Holmes might not trust his own agents, but he trusted John.

For a moment, only the busy traffic sounds from Baker Street filled the living room until John’s rumbling stomach broke the silence. “Really John? Your body needs to focus on the transport.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t eat while I’m working. Digestion slows me down. I need to think. Everything else is transport.”

“That’s not very healthy,” John chided with feigned austerity. “Do you have anything in? I could make us breakfast.”

“Is that how a relationship works? Us bantering about food?” Sherlock ran both hands through the dark cloud of disheveled hair.

“It’s about taking care of each other among other things.” Sherlock rolled his eyes, showing his lack of experience in that particular case. A warm fuzzy feeling pooled into John’s stomach.

“You expect me to change for you.”

“No,” John emphasized, truthful. “A relationship forges with compromises, but never with the intent to change someone. It’s like when you didn’t tell me about your whereabouts and plans regarding Magnussen because you wanted to protect me, I understand. Yet, by doing this you deprived me of the chance to make a decision on my own.”

“Compromises?” Sherlock mouthed the word, considering the meaning.

“But my moving in shouldn’t be regarded as a compromise. It’s about a choice, a decision only you should make.”

John saw how Sherlock’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed the truth of the words. They locked eyes for a long moment while John’s heart leaped into his throat, desperate for Sherlock to give his final answer.

“I thought I made it clear last night,” Sherlock’s baritone tinged with a hint of feigned reproach. “That I want you to stay.”

Another moment passed before a fond smile grazed John’s lips, exhaling a breath he didn’t recognize he had held. “Then let’s have that breakfast, and later I’ll fetch my suitcases from the hotel where Harry is staying.”

Sherlock’s decision took a load off his mind. So John walked with a lightness in his steps to the man still sitting on the sofa. His hands cupped the sharp features before he pressed a kiss onto those luscious lips with a delighted grin.

In the end, John came to know that the fridge held only a milk along with several plastic bags containing severed parts of human bodies. He arched his eyebrows in surprise at the unusual sight of a fridge’s contents. But at the same time, another warm gush flooded him since he wasn’t disturbed by it. No. He wouldn’t have expected anything less from the eccentric detective.

Due to the lack of any other edible food, John decided on a cup of coffee instead. While he waited for the water to boil he texted his sister since Sherlock went into the bathroom.

_Sorry. So much happened yesterday. I’m coming over in a few minutes to pick up my stuff. I’ll explain then. – John Watson_.

The reply came at once, implying despite the early hour Harry was already up which was still a good sign for her establishing a regulated life.

_You teaser! I want to know every dirty detail. Move your arse!_ – Harry Watson.

***

Snowflakes still danced outside the windows of 221B while darkness revealed the late evening hour. A white blanket decorated Baker Street, muffling the sounds of traffic and people returning from work.

John chose his new favorite spot in the flat – the red upholstered armchair in front of the chimney. In the afternoon, Sherlock had kindled a fire which warmed John’s feet right now. It was odd, John mused, but after visiting 221B only twice he immediately felt at home. He liked the furnishing, a bit out of fashion, though very snug and inviting. Sherlock had barely changed anything in the flat, albeit his makeshift laboratory in the kitchen. Contrary to John’s expectation, Sherlock’s bedroom was neat and well-structured.

While John fetched his stuff from the hotel Sherlock hadn’t been idle. The man had cleared up his closet and provided John half of the furniture on his return. He gave John but one friendly reminder: not to make a mess of his sock index. At first, John had laughed, but then he saw the drawer with neatly rolled clothes. Sherlock reprimanded him for not using the same system for his socks since they tend to get lost otherwise. This caused another burst of laughter from John, and Sherlock’s bottom lip jutted forward like a sulky child.

John had apologized later as he realized that a systematic chaos was important for Sherlock. Since the fridge still contained no edible food, John ordered Chinese in for supper.

After filling their bellies, they retreated to the living room, once again carefully dancing around each other. Although they had shared a hotel suite, shared every intimate detail of each other, this situation now held a novelty. Their well-balanced waltz had been shattered, and the pieces needed to be arranged in a different fashion. Of course, John knew, this would take some time.

So he decided to lounge in the red armchair and work on his laptop while Sherlock claimed his place in front of the window where he fetched his violin to play several classic pieces. As the music filled the flat with a string of quiet notes, John found himself time and again losing his chain of thought, his mind lulled by the melody. He detected fragments of the piece Sherlock had played for him at St. James’s church, but they also mingled with new tunes.

With a frustrated huff, Sherlock stopped his play. His hands dropped to his sides along with bow and violin. He stared distantly at the swirling snow. John, looking up at the sudden interlude, saw his pinched face reflecting in the window pane.

Patient, he waited for Sherlock giving voice to his irritation. When John didn’t move Sherlock’s eyes met John’s with a piercing glare through the reflection. “I’ve lost it.”

Furling his brows, John rummaged his mind what Sherlock could possibly mean. “What have you lost?”

“The piece I played for you in the church,” Sherlock gestured with the bow, annoyance contorting his face.

“I see,” a crease wrinkled between John’s eyes.

“No, you don’t,” Sherlock said, exasperated at his own forgetfulness and John’s inability to understand. He whirled around, his dressing gown billowing with the movement. “I can play any classic piece of music, mimic it with all its composer’s intention, but I have never been able to produce my own compositions.” He paused, his frustration fading for despair. “Until I played for you. And now it’s lost. I’ve tried to find the correct notes in these last weeks, but it’s gone.”

John took a slow breath and put the laptop on the small round table next to him. He walked over to the window, closing the gap between them. Contrary to Sherlock’s accusation, John understood very well. Sherlock’s misery resulted from an emotional moment when passion overwhelmed him, intoxicated him with sentiment he had suppressed for such a long time. It was an ad hoc composition and got lost with its unique moment. “You’ll find it again through other pieces until you can fill your own concerto.”

Sherlock sighed, the abrupt storm of tetchiness receding as he looked ruefully at his violin. The varnish of the wooden instrument shimmered in the dim light of the room, reflecting the dancing flames from the chimney with a golden glow. A thin-lipped smile tugged at the corners of Sherlock’s mouth. “You think so?”

As much the detective portrayed a confidential self, detached and aloof to the world, as insecure Sherlock could be regarding his own conflicting emotions. “Sure. I’m here now and I don’t intend to ever leave again.”

Sherlock’s lips twitched at the declaration as his smile blossomed into a full grin. “You like to butter me up.”

“What can I say?” John returned the smile. “I’m in love.”

Sherlock ducked his head to look at his violin, eyes fluttering nearly shut, coy, while his lashes drew dark crescents along his creamy cheeks. Without another word, he tucked the instrument under his chin and resumed his play.

Delighted, John retreated to his armchair, relishing the newly found music. Instead of working again on his laptop, he closed his eyes to devour each note with his reveries.

Time seemed to stretch into peaceful eternity as John lost track of time, listening to the beautifully composed harmony. He didn’t become absorbed just in the music, though, but also in the crackling fire when a log burst in the wild dance of flames and the ongoing susurrus invading the flat from Baker Street. And for the first time in his entire life, John felt completely and utterly at home.

Lulled into a dreamy congeniality, he didn’t even realize that Sherlock had stopped playing until the baritone replaced the music. “What is that?”

The quiet rumble tore John from his blissful floating. His eyes fluttered open, adjusting to the shadows of the room. Sherlock pointed with his bow at John’s laptop. Still opened, the screen illuminated John’s face with a blueish light. “I follow my own advice for you and created a blog.”

“But I already have a website – the _Science of Deduction_.”

“I know.” A mischievous smile graced John’s lips. “That is why I created the blog.”

“Why?”

“Because, frankly, your website is crap,” he huffed a small laugh, pointedly looking at Sherlock. “Two hundred and forty types of tobacco ashes?”

“Two hundred and forty-three,” Sherlock lifted his chin in defiance.

“No one reads your website.”

“Then what’s your blog about?” Sherlock put his violin and bow in the case. Crossing his arms in front of his chest, he dared John who chuckled at the man’s curiosity.

“You.”

At this, Sherlock narrowed his eyes, drawing closer, genuine interest taking over. He read the caption of the first entry, “ _The innocent criminal_?”

John’s smile brightened as the title clicked in Sherlock’s mind. “Yes. The case about Tenner.”

Contrary to John’s gleeful grin, Sherlock’s lips tilted downward in disapproval. “This wasn’t even homicide, John. Save your first entry for a real murder.”

Once again, Sherlock’s vanity became evident since the case, albeit showing interesting aspects of the detective’s deductions, didn’t reveal a murderer in the end. But John wasn’t to be irritated by Sherlock’s retort. The detective nourished an odd kind of narcissism. He considered himself more like a puzzle-solver wherein the puzzles had to be on a certain level of difficulty, respectively a murder. Apparently, Sherlock didn’t deem an innocent drug addict, who wasn’t involved in a suicide, as not worthy of publishing on a blog.

John got up and cupped Sherlock’s elbows to draw him into an embrace. “People might be interested in you.”

“You think so?” Sherlock scoffed, yet uncertainty leaked into the words. As if to whitewash his hesitation the man usually reverted to derision. But John realized the true reason behind Sherlock’s reluctance. Despite his vanity for praise, Sherlock wasn’t used to being the center of a conversation. He hated it because too often people accorded no credibility to the detective and deemed him a freak. This solitude portrayed the contrast to the fact that he enjoyed solving puzzles. He loved to follow each new lead to finally unravel a mystery. John understood that putting Sherlock into the middle of a talk not only evoked applause but also unwanted questions by enviers. As a result of this, Sherlock wanted to boast with murder cases, intricate and almost unsolvable, instead of showing his human side.

“It’s what caught my interest in you.” John detangled Sherlock’s defensive stance, taking his hands into his own while stretching up to meet those plump lips. Still uncertain whether the caress was welcomed or not, John kept the kiss chaste, just a soft brush, waiting for Sherlock to respond.

Sherlock’s hands flexed timidly in John’s palms, the tension abating as he reciprocated the intimacy. He stepped closer, pressing himself flush against John while tilting his head to the side to grant John better access. Lips parting, he sighed before mouthing John’s bottom lip. He sucked with gentle tenderness at the sensitive skin, and John’s eyes rolled back in his head, submerged in sensation.

Just a few days ago, the notion of having lost what they had found in the Westminster suite paralyzed John. What an irony it was now that he stood amidst the City of Westminster recovering from his impaired confidence.

He had forgiven Sherlock. At the very moment John entered 221B while Magnussen held a vise-like grip on Sherlock, metaphorically as well as literally, John knew that he forgave Sherlock. But he also understood that it needed time for his trust to recuperate from Sherlock’s deception. He wasn’t so naïve as to believe their relationship henceforth would be the same as what they had shared in the sanctuary of his suite. No. They needed to rediscover themselves, meet afresh without the layers of lies between them.

Through this complicated mess of anxiety and pleasant anticipation of what the future might hold ready for them, John felt a prickling frisson running down his spine. Sherlock’s tongue followed the trail of John’s rosy flesh, licking along the thin-lipped seam. Relishing Sherlock’s ministration, John opened his mouth to mirror Sherlock’s caress, closing his lips over the delicious Cupid’s bow.

A quiet moan reverberated through Sherlock’s throat as John’s tongue probed past the slight scrape of his teeth. John released his loose hold of the man’s hand, bringing it up to cup Sherlock’s angular cheek. The faint stubble, grown out since his last shave yesterday, tickled beneath his pads as he wound his hand around Sherlock’s head. Fingers raking through the dark mop of curls, John pushed gingerly to deepen the kiss.

Their tongues met as Sherlock complied with the unspoken proposal. His own hand trailing a path upward to John’s collarbone in the narrow confinement of between their bodies. With the kiss intensifying, a groan bubbled up John’s throat, unable to hold back any longer. He licked his way into the warmth of Sherlock’s mouth, stroking and sucking at the man’s tongue. His hand mimicked the fervent affection as he brushed feather-light fingers down Sherlock’s nape to his shoulder until he met the velvety fabric of his dressing gown.

Delicate goose bumps let the fine hairs on Sherlock’s neck stand upright, a response reciprocated by John’s body as well. Sherlock radiated with heat, stirring a buzz in John, and suddenly the kiss wasn’t enough. Their tongues danced around each other one more time. The slick waltz caused their breaths coming forth in shallow puffs before Sherlock broke the kiss with a gasp. At the sudden loss of enticing heat, John blindly trailed to the corner of Sherlock’s mouth. Invitingly, Sherlock tilted his head to the side, granting John in mute consent to follow his path.

So John ghosted his lips to Sherlock’s earlobe, an unruly curl tickling at his nose. He mouthed the soft flesh, sucking ever so gently to release it with a graze of his teeth. Sherlock shuddered, and John heard the faint click of his throat as he swallowed. As if the quiver tore him back from a spellbound stupor of sensation, Sherlock remembered his hand at the collar of John’s button-down. With nimble fingers, Sherlock fumbled with the buttons, pushing each tiny plastic through each hole.

Aware of Sherlock’s frantic ministrations, John suppressed a grin against the man’s smooth skin before he traced further down his long neck. His tongue flicked at the carotid fluttering under the supple flesh. The artery equally set John’s stomach aflutter with a new wave of arousal. At the curve between shoulder and neck, John tasted and smelled the scent of a fresh shower in the early evening. The artificial flavor mingling with Sherlock’s natural scent intoxicated his nostrils. A delirious daze besieged John before he licked a broad stripe down to the man’s collarbone barely hidden beneath the baggy t-shirt. He chased the delicious fragrance while his hand slid under the dressing gown to push it over a slender shoulder.

Sherlock let go of John’s other hand and shrugged out of the sleeve while his right hand finished unbuttoning John’s checked shirt. Heady fingers wriggled their way beneath the cotton to sweep to John’s flank, causing a titillating sensation so that John’s muscles twitched at the playful touch. A mischievous grin tugged at the corners of Sherlock’s mouth as he leaned down. His lips brushed over John’s neck to mirror the caress along his own throat.

In response to the cheekiness, John bit teasingly at the man’s collarbone. The scrape of teeth evoked a gasp and a snap of his hips against John’s groin. Sherlock’s growing erection was palpable beneath the thin pajama bottoms, fueling John’s own arousal. As his pleasure curled, intense and demanding, John dropped his hand from the man’s shoulder, fingers trailing to the hem of his gray t-shirt.

While John’s lips dragged from the protruding bone to the soft hollow in the middle, Sherlock dropped his head back, a desperate groan vibrating against John’s tongue. “John.”

“Yes?” he murmured, feigning ignorance of the implicit plea as he grazed his lips upward to nip at the ridge of Sherlock’s throat. His fingers crumpled the t-shirt up to stroke the distinct rippled path of Sherlock’s waistband while his thumb brushed a twin-path along the silky skin to the front. Muscles flexed delightfully at the mimicked caress to return the tickling favor.

“Let’s go to bed.” The Adam’s apple bobbed up and down against John’s tongue as the words pulsed with insinuation.

A whisper of fabric rustled, and John sensed cool air enveloping his bare skin once Sherlock slipped his button-down over his shoulders. With the fabric trapped at his elbows, John reluctantly withdrew from Sherlock’s neck. He fumbled with the buttons at his cuffs to strip the cloth off his arms while a lump formed in his throat. John realized that despite their time in the hotel suite, this was new – a reliving of their shared intimacy.

Sherlock imitated the deed to shrug out of his dressing gown, the russet fabric sliding to the floor and ruffling around his bare feet. When their eyes finally met again, John looked into two dark pools eclipsed with a thin pale blue ring.

“Then take me to bed,” John rasped.

Sherlock’s gaze gleamed with affection, a dark orange dancing in his eyes, reflecting the crackling fire that consumed wood with all its fierce. His look bore the sharp contrast to his cold stare on Magnussen’s terrace, piercing and relentless. As much the man portrayed the aloof detective, John, in the sanctuary of their hotel suite, no, in the sanctuary of their own created sphere of safety, saw Sherlock detached from a world where he considered himself to not fit into. And this person presented neither a detective nor a prostitute. No. This person was Sherlock in his truest and most honest form.

Leaning in, Sherlock kissed him once again before curling his fingers around John’s hand to tug him along to the kitchen. The empty containers of their Chinese takeaway stood on the kitchen table. _Well, Sherlock’s container is not so empty_. John smiled at the man’s affectionate reproach of them bantering about food as part of their domesticity.

And John never felt this happy before as he followed the lead down the corridor to their bedroom.

_Our bedroom_. Dizzily, the recognition echoed in his mind. It was more than John had ever dared hope for after Sherlock left him in the hotel suite.

Once John closed the door to the bedroom Sherlock pulled the t-shirt over his head in one swift movement. John detected a fresh wave of goose bumps rippling Sherlock’s alabaster skin since the room wasn’t overly heated. For a moment, they stared at each other, the familiar waltz of them in the hotel suite returning, and suddenly John’s mouth felt parched. Sherlock gripped the rumpled t-shirt in his hands, flexing them in a nervous fashion. “How do you want me?”

The wording, a reminiscence of their five days together, didn’t take John by surprise. He had mulled over the dynamic of their relationship time and again. But since Sherlock’s suggestion from their last night together, John’s fine hairs at the nape of his neck raised when he thought about the possibilities. “I want you to fuck me.”

Back then, Sherlock’s blunt question had taken him aback, unprepared and astonished at the man’s unsophisticated choice of words. Yet, a shiver had run down his spine.

This time, John voiced his desire with the same blunt language to take Sherlock off-guard for a second. The man drew a sharp intake of breath at the proposal, and a smirk stretched John’s lips at his triumph to have the man rendered speechless.

His victory was interrupted by Sherlock stripping off his pajama bottoms to leave him only in a snug pair of boxer briefs. He kicked the cloth aside, his lithe body flexing with the movement before holding out his hand for John. “Come here.”

Now, it was Sherlock’s turn to grin as John’s mouth had dropped open. John peeled himself from the door and crossed the room. He thought fire might consume him if he had to wait any longer to melt with Sherlock once more. Their lips collided the second John drew Sherlock down to overcome their height difference. Warm bodies slid against each other as finally, their chests met with no disturbing cloth between them.

“You’re overdressed,” Sherlock mumbled against John’s mouth after savoring their kiss, forehead glued together with tenderness. He hooked one long digit beneath the belt of John’s jeans, tugging playfully.

John huffed a small laugh at the flirty remark. “You want to lend me a hand?”

Tongue peeking out, Sherlock dragged the pink over his lush bottom lip before ducking his head for a better view. He pulled the end of the brown leather through a loop of John’s jeans and loosened the buckle. Captivated, John watched Sherlock’s face, his dark lashes fanning along his pale cheek as he opened the button to his jeans followed by the zipper.

The sound rasped in the quiet room, and John’s breath hitched in anticipation of his imminent exposure. Gently, Sherlock shoved him backward until John’s knees met the edge of the bed. In one swift motion, Sherlock hooked his thumbs beneath the waistband and pushed the coarse fabric along with his pants down. At once, John’s skin rippled with surges of goose bumps, not because of the cool air in the room, but due to being laid bare under those scrutinizing eyes. Odd as it was since they had shared intimacy before. Yet with those past weeks gaping between them, John felt shyness overwhelming him once again.

Sherlock nudged at John’s hip since he knelt in front of him, implying for John to sit down. He complied with the unspoken request, the cotton whispering as he ruffled the soft sheets. After removing John’s socks, Sherlock tugged at the jeans until he freed John’s legs to throw the fabric carelessly to the floor.

Although he was sitting on the bed, due to their height difference, Sherlock still measured up to John’s chest. Shin tipping a bit forward, John pressed his leg against Sherlock’s cock still concealed beneath the black briefs. “Now?” John teased. “Who’s overdressed?”

A devilish grin stretched Sherlock’s lips. He spread John’s knees further apart and rose from his kneeling position. Looming over him now, John understood the hint to scoot back on the bed until his head hit a soft pile of pillows. Sherlock followed suit to crawl over him until his knees wedged John’s crotch. Propped on his elbows, he bracketed John’s head, lowering his face for another passionate kiss.

While chasing the man’s tongue John’s hands skimmed down Sherlock’s flanks to the sharp crests of bones as Sherlock began to lasciviously roll his hips. The movement provided a bittersweet friction along John’s jutting erection; enough to tease but not so much as to push him over the edge. John moaned deep in his throat, head falling back into the softness of the pillows. With an agonizing rhythm, Sherlock rocked back and forth before he lifted his torso up, bracing his hands on each side of John’s head to look down between them. Slow and relentless, his hips teased John as he dragged his still clad prick over John’s hard cock.

“Sherlock,” John husked in a plea, unable to bear this sweet torment anymore. Impatient hands tugged at Sherlock’s briefs, fingers brushing under the waistband in the want to reach more smooth skin.

Sherlock, understanding the hint, knelt back in front of John to shed the unnecessary piece of cloth. But instead of resuming the voluptuous caress, the man rolled on his back next to John. Another secretive smile tugged at his lips as he found John looking bewildered at him.

“Straddle my chest,” Sherlock elaborated, his voice even lower than his usual baritone.

Clueless, John arched his brows. “I thought you would…”

“You need preparation, John,” Sherlock cut in. “And I want to suck you.”

John’s lips formed a silent _Oh_ as comprehension dawned on him. He propped himself up on his elbows to climb over Sherlock and straddle his stomach. “Erm… don’t we need something?”

“Topmost drawer of the nightstand,” Sherlock pointed with his chin to the left side of the bed.

Clasping his knees around Sherlock’s slender frame, John balanced his weight to open the drawer. For a moment, he frowned at the content. Beside lube and condoms, John found a black shiny cloth along with a sheet of paper. He quirked an eyebrow at the man before unrolling the exquisite fabric he once bestowed to Sherlock. “You left everything behind, but you kept _this_?”

As John let the tie dangle in front of Sherlock, John saw a delicate pink creeping into his alabaster cheeks, not just due to his arousal but embarrassment. “So much for sentiment,” Sherlock conceded, and John realized that although the man had wanted to distance himself from John and their shared memories, he couldn’t deny himself. Warmth pooled into the pit of his stomach at the awareness that this also rendered a declaration of love. At the same time, sadness mingled into his consciousness as he also conceived Sherlock’s despair when Magnussen ripped them apart.

As Sherlock took the cloth from him to pull it taut between his hands, John’s attention was drawn to the document. A spreadsheet provided several numbers and facts which John knew too well as a doctor. “You’ve been tested?”

Beneath him, Sherlock wriggled uncomfortably. “It’s Mycroft’s paranoia. Whenever I disappear off his radar, he gets suspicious that I might have relapsed. Afraid that some tainted needle could have infected me he urged me to do a complete test.”

“Including STI.”

“The results are negative,” Sherlock pointed out as if to defend himself.

“I can see that,” John said, folding the paper to put it back into the drawer and retrieving the lube he originally had searched. “I’ve been tested, too. After supposing Mary’s infidelity, I decided to run a test once we were divorced.”

“Oh,” Sherlock’s baritone vibrated through his torso with the one syllable.

“The results were negative, too.” John handed him the lube, a shy smile twitching at his lips. “If you don’t mind we can skip the condoms.”

“No rules applied to our relationship this time,” Sherlock murmured, self-conscious. He put the lube next to his pillow, gliding the silky fabric of the tie through his fingers. “Do you trust me, John?”

The question took John aback for a moment before replying, “I wouldn’t be here with you if I didn’t.” It was true. Despite Sherlock’s deception, he still trusted the man. Even though his confidence was impaired, his trust established the foundation of their relationship. Otherwise, he would never have given them a second chance.

“Then I have the perfect idea for this.” Sherlock held up the tie for John to take. “Put it around your eyes. Blindfolded, your consciousness intensifies every perception with your other senses.”

His cock invigorated with a twitch after their little intermezzo. The suggestion alone prickled down his spine, flashing with delicious spikes into the small of his back.

John took the tie eventually, feeling the flawless material sliding between index finger and thumb, a wicked grin spreading on his lips. “So not into the kinky stuff,” he mumbled, suppressing a self-reflected laugh.

“As I said before: I never elaborated,” Sherlock’s hands cupped John’s knees, palms stroking upward to rest on his hipbones as he waited for John’s response.

John shook his head in amused disbelief about the man’s tendency to omit important facts. But he had already made his mind as he placed the broader end of the tie in front of his eyes. One last glimpse caught on Sherlock who looked back with rapt attention.

He tied up the fabric at the back of his head into a neat ribbon, so the cloth wouldn’t slip out of place. Due to the black material, John found himself engulfed in sheer darkness. Its impact hit John immediately as all his other senses took over for the lost one. A cool breeze from the ajar window ghosted over his body, rippling his flesh with goose bumps. The aphrodisiac scent emanating from Sherlock flared his nostrils as he sucked in the air.

Waiting for any response from the other man, John stayed put, sensing beneath him the elevated heartbeat in Sherlock’s chest drumming relentlessly against his ribcage. He strained his ears, expecting to distinguish any sound – a whisper of the sheets or a creaking from the bed base – to foresee of what would be Sherlock’s next move. But instead, Sherlock kept his hands at his hips, obviously taking John to pieces while drinking in his body.

Under those ethereal eyes, piercing and scrutinizing, John squirmed with a mix of self-consciousness and excitement. The movement tore Sherlock from his stare as his right hand stroked upward. Fingers brushed over John’s sparse blond dusting at his chest, thumb dragging over a pebbled nipple, and John gasped at the electrifying impulses flashing through him.

The man’s large hand glided further up over the defined planes of his chest to his left shoulder. Nimble fingers skimmed over the gnarled flesh. “I’ve never particularly seen it from the front,” Sherlock’s baritone betrayed sincere curiosity whereas John had mixed feelings about the scar.

He always regarded the white protruding tissue as something ugly, even cruel since the wound reminded him of a miserable time in his life. The scar provided the conflict of having failed to withstand his father. He originally wanted to escape the tight grip of his old man in becoming a physician, finding his own way. Yet, fate had thwarted his plan.

“It’s not very beautiful.” Bitterness crept into John’s voice.

“It’s part of you.” A finger drew gentle circles around the thin ridge of the entrance wound.

With the injury, his past caught up with him, yielding to what his father wanted. But then, John envisaged, what would have happened to him if he hadn’t been shot? Certainly, he would be still working as an army doctor. Would he have married Mary since they wouldn’t have shared their time together in his bedsit, her taking care of him? Would he have ever met Sherlock?

A gingerly tug at John’s shoulder ripped him back from his somber contemplation as Sherlock pulled him down. The man’s lips ghosted over the scar, hot breath brushing at the almost numb skin. He kissed the wound, a feather-light yet passionate caress, before he turned to John’s ear. “Straddle my chest, John.”

Under the tie, John’s eyes widened in anticipation as Sherlock’s baritone reverberated into his inner core at such closeness. Leaning back again, John braced his weight on his knees to slide forward. With the help of Sherlock guiding him into position, John sat down, fine hairs tickling the underside of his thighs. He sensed the solid ribcage rising and swelling as Sherlock’s breathing became more labored. “Am I not too heavy?”

“Please John,” feigned reproach tinged the man’s voice, and a chuckle shook beneath John. “You lost two pounds since we last met.”

John had paid little attention to his weight recently, but he had needed to pull in his belt. That being said, he realized that Sherlock had hedged his question. However, he also hadn’t complained. Out of habit, John ducked his head, seeking eye contact where the blindfold let him only guess. Even so, his imagination ran suddenly wild as he pictured himself with spread knees, straddling Sherlock’s slender frame. His jutting cock must be close to those glorious lips as he sensed a hot breath puffing against the tip.

John heard the rustling of the pillows rearrange beneath Sherlock’s head, propping him up so to not strain his neck. There was a moment’s silence before wetness dragged along the underside of his glans. Nearly toppling over at the sudden explosion of sensation, John swore. “Fuck.” His hips bucked, but he restrained himself so much as to not thrust blindly forward. Instead, his hands searched for the headboard of the bed, grabbing the wood as if he would drown. He felt light-headed just from the tiniest touch in the darkness. Sherlock was right. The blindfold would make him hypersensitive.

“You can thrust, though not too deep,” the words became another damp caress against the head of his cock.

John swallowed and nodded, unable to produce any coherent word. Fingers clasping around the edge of the headboard, John braced himself for the next intoxicating touch.

Sherlock tilted his head and licked a broad stripe from head to base, chasing a protruding vein. Molten blood trickled down John’s spine, hot and pleasant, before it pooled into his lower abdomen. He sensed his quivering pulse against Sherlock’s tongue as the man rubbed the wetness up and down his length, the tip of his tongue teasing the flared ridge of John’s glans.

First drops leaked from John’s slit, and Sherlock licked them off with a wavering sound rumbling in his throat. John’s muscles flexed in sweet agony as his body wanted to push into the alluring dampness. But he needed to wait for Sherlock taking him into his mouth.

“Please Sherlock,” he begged, imagining the mischievous smirk gracing the sharp features of the man’s face.

Then, the heat of Sherlock’s breath was gone, replaced by a firm stroke with his large hand to retract the rest of his foreskin. John, in the perpetual glory of exhilarating sensation, could barely keep his keenness at bay as shivers ran up and down his spine.

Sherlock’s hand remained at the base of his shaft before John felt soft skin around his prick, pulling him into warm moisture. John’s head dropped forward onto his neck while his breath hitched in his throat. Images of their first night together popped into his mind as he remembered those luscious lips stretching around him. Eagerly, yet with caution to not thrust too deep, John yielded to his lust, letting his hips snap forward with a groan.

Sherlock surged his flattened tongue against the underside of John’s erection, preventing John from choking him. As if in response to the exquisite pressure John’s cock twitched against the seductive touch. Ripples along Sherlock’s soft palate and throat massaged his leaking head as Sherlock swallowed the first drops along with gathering saliva.

“Oh God,” John gasped at the teasing torture, grateful about the blindfold whereas he cursed the damn thing at the same time. He knew he wouldn’t last long if he saw Sherlock hollowing his cheeks while watching him under long lashes. Yet, he also wanted to relish the man’s piercing eyes as he took John to pieces.

Each time, John pulled back Sherlock softened the pressure on John’s cock to let the tip of his tongue flick ever so gently over the sensitive frenulum. It was a tantalizing slow rhythm, deliberately chosen by Sherlock to inflame John, but not to make him come undone while letting John’s prick ride back into his mouth.

A quiet click of a cap drew John back from the buzzing ecstasy to reality. Sherlock must have opened the lube. The man’s hand released John’s shaft as he fumbled with the bottle before warm fingers skimmed over the small of his back.

John had stilled for a moment in anticipation of Sherlock’s next move. The man drew lazy circles over the crack of his arse, provocative and flirtatious. He leaned his head back, and John nearly whimpered at the loss of damp warmth around his cock. Sherlock kissed the flared ridge of his glans before dipping his slick fingers between his cheeks.

The momentary noises in the room reduced to silence wherein only John’s ragged panting broke the calm. Sherlock’s other hand grabbed his buttock. He squeezed in encouragement while his fingers began to draw lascivious circles around John’s entrance.

Abandoned, John’s cock jerked up, showing the same eagerness his mind titillated the fine hairs at his nape to stand upright. The second Sherlock once again circled his tongue around the head of John’s cock, he pressed a slick finger past the taut muscle of his hole.

Despite his expectation, John startled at the intrusion, not so much about the act itself, but how effortlessly Sherlock’s finger slid into his body. Engulfed with the hazy fog of arousal, John assumed he was too relaxed as to tense under the caress.

Sherlock’s other hand released John’s arse. He scraped with the lightest touch of his fingernails upward over well-defined muscles of his back. John felt the distinct up and down of the man’s pads along the notches of his spine until he curved his palm over John’s shoulder. The touch portrayed a worship as Sherlock hummed appreciatively in the back of his throat. His fingers swept to a nipple, pebbled at the combination of cool air and stimulation. Thumb circling around the small pink bud, Sherlock mimicked the motion at John’s entrance with a second finger brushing along the furled flesh.

John arched his back as Sherlock pinched the nipple before his fingers trailed down the landscape of his torso. Due to his excited shudders and frantic movements, the blindfold had slipped up a fraction. Dim light invaded from below. John blinked as his eyes adjusted to the sudden brightness before he peeked through the small gap. He found his chest and stomach beaded with a slight sheen of sweat. His eyes followed Sherlock’s slender fingers stroking through the thin blond line of hairs running down to his cock. The man once again curled his long digits around John’s cock. And at the same time, when he probed a second finger into John’s tempting heat, Sherlock kissed the tip of his prick. His tongue darted out to press lightly at the slit and lick up more evidence of John’s lust.

The second finger was harder to take while Sherlock ever so gently pushed them apart to start him stretching. It wasn’t uncomfortable at all, John realized in his dazed mind, too far gone to be overly aware of the slight burning sensation. With the combined stimuli at his cock prompting him to slacken his muscles, Sherlock eased both fingers further into his heat.

Sherlock set an agonizing cadence of pushing in and out while his tongue caressed the head of John’s cock with a lasciviousness that John groaned with frustration. He wanted the man already buried deep inside him. But then a firework of electrifying flashes pulsed through him once Sherlock found the sensitive tissue hidden deep inside his body. A string of profanities slipped from John’s mouth, eyes squeezing shut at the galvanizing touch.

Sherlock, obviously pleased over finding John’s prostate, brushed the gland again. And John didn't know whether to push forward into the enticing wet mouth or backward to chase the radiating itch.

Quivering with the overwhelming sensation, John anchored himself by gripping the headboard even harder. His head fell forward between his outstretched arms while Sherlock pushed a third finger into his body.

With Sherlock’s ministrations intensifying, hot passion took over. Flames licked up his body to paint his skin with a flushed pink. Even the cool air in the bedroom wasn’t helping. John found himself grinding back on Sherlock’s fingers while simultaneously thrusting into his mouth when the man began to suck him now in earnest.

“Oh God,” John reiterated with much vigor as tendrils of pleasure raked up his spine, sending forth molten blood into his lower abdomen to cause his balls pull tight against his body. With all his willpower, he pulled back from Sherlock’s beguiling lips and tongue. His hand reached for the ribbon at the back of his head to loosen the ends. When the blindfold slipped from his eyes, the tie left his hair disheveled in a spiky mess of blond and silver. “I swear, if you continue like this, you’ll push me over the edge way too soon.”

“Will I?” Sherlock’s sultry voice betrayed mischievous glee. His eyes flicked to the evidence of John’s arousal in front of him.

John followed the unabashed stare as he looked down his debauched body, cock glistening with saliva and precum. In a flicker of hazy delight, John imagined that it would barely take a few strokes to make him come right onto Sherlock’s face. As dizzily the temptation made him, he forced his mind into lucidity and saved the idea for another time because it would corrupt his initial wish. 

Since the man made no attempt to move John stared a little helpless around on the bed, not knowing what to do next. His gaze stopped at Sherlock’s own yet untouched cock, laying flush against his stomach. Although Sherlock pleased John in each and any possible voluptuous fashion he had neglected himself. Now it was John’s turn to return the favor.

“How do you want me?” John echoed Sherlock’s recurring question, voice low-pitched and full of avid innuendo.

“Whatever you want.”

“I want to see you.” The blindfold had been an exquisite idea to relax John and make him hypersensitive for each touch, but now he wanted to also watch Sherlock come undone. Even in the hotel suite, he barely got a chance to glimpse at the usually agitated man detached from the world amidst a riptide of blissful desire.

Determined, John climbed from Sherlock’s chest after the man withdrew his fingers, leaving his scorching core empty and hollow. He rolled onto his back and braced his feet onto the soft mattress, knees bent. A flutter in John’s chest conceded his little nervousness, and his heart leaped into his throat. But the rising tension was evaporated by Sherlock leaning over to kiss him while he positioned himself in the vee of John’s spread legs.

John tasted himself on the man’s lips, chasing the evidence of what was purely the two of them. Eyes rolling back into his head, Sherlock lowered himself, closing the gap between them so that their hot skin melted with each other.

“I thought you wanted to see me,” Sherlock’s baritone vibrated against his lips.

“It’s a bit difficult to focus.” John’s lids fluttered open to stare into those ethereal eyes framed by small crinkles of pleased amusement.

Sherlock kissed him again, deep and languorously, before kneeling back on his heels. He grabbed a pillow and gestured for John to lift his arse. “It’s easier like this,” he said, shoving the pillow beneath John’s hips.

John watched with rapt attention how Sherlock took the bottle of lube to squeeze a generous amount onto his palm. With an almost imperceptible groan, he smeared the cool gel along his hardened length, the touch long overdue. Nostrils flaring, John drew a sharp breath in sympathy before the mattress dipped as Sherlock scooted closer.

A broad palm cupped John’s knee, nudging gently to imply that he should spread his legs further apart. John shuddered under those scrutinizing gaze, now clouded with lust for him. Sherlock adjusted their position, taking himself into hand to align his cock with John’s entrance.

John gasped as rigidity strained his taut muscle even more than three fingers. He bunched his fingers into the sheet, crumpling the cotton while Sherlock pushed into him, inch by inch, ever so slowly. Sensing the rim stretching around Sherlock’s prick, John clenched his jaw, trying not to let the burning sensation abate his pleasure. To distract himself from the stinging heat, John watched the man looking down to the place where they were connected. Face flushed, the alabaster skin had receded for a mottled pink. Lips parted, Sherlock panted for breath at the tightness while he focused on John to not inflict any pain.

John mimicked Sherlock’s breathlessness. His chest rose and fell with ragged gasps once the man was finally buried deep inside him. Sherlock waited a moment, hands stroking up and down John’s thighs as if to soothe him.

Momentarily, the tension eased off his muscles. Now that the unfamiliar intrusion had stopped John could adjust to the feeling of being filled. His breathing still came in shallow puffs as he gazed down to where they were bonded. In a dizzy haze, he saw Sherlock’s fingers curling around his cock, stroking him with a lascivious flick from his wrist. Not until then realized John that his own erection had flagged a bit. Sherlock dragged his thumb over the tip of the head and rounded it over the flared ridge of John’s glans.

His cock twitched in the man’s hand, invigorating his arousal while John rocked his hips from side to side, adapting to the stretched sensation. After a moment, he grabbed Sherlock’s narrow hips, tugging at the sharp crests. “You can move now.”

Sherlock met John’s unflinching eyes and nodded. A large hand sprawled over John’s lower abdomen before he withdrew, just a fraction, to thrust back into the sensual heat as if he wanted to feel the connection while moving within John.

With each careful stab, Sherlock pulled further back. And what had been tender friction before, now turned into a feverish roll of John’s hips as he met Sherlock’s rhythm. A deep groan rumbled in Sherlock’s chest as John wedged his lithe flanks with his legs to find a balance. At this, the man bent forward, bracing one hand beside John’s head while his other hand curled around John’s thigh to support his weight.

Sherlock set a slow pace until any hint of a soreness dissolved from John and only left pleasure in its wake. A shudder undulated John’s body, arching his back to push his cock against Sherlock’s stomach. The man had found the right angle to brush along his prostate once again and set John ablaze. His fingernails dug into the smooth skin, leaving red crescents on the pale skin while Sherlock began to truly devour John.

Their rhythm increased, turning erratic as John met each thrust, grinding down on the man’s length to chase those electrifying pulses that drew him bit by bit closer to the blissful edge. John’s body rippled with goose bumps as Sherlock lowered himself to close the gap between them. With his cock trapped between their stomachs John’s frisson propelled at the sweet friction. He floated in sensation. A hot current saturated his body while tendrils of pleasure wound around him and heightened his senses. The fluid leaking from his cock spread along his shaft in the movement, easing off the coarseness of dry skin.

“Oh fuck,” John gritted his teeth, so close, yet unable to chase down the captivating thrill. Relentlessly, he rolled his hips to meet each of Sherlock’s thrusts, taking him as deep as he could. A sheen of sweat had beaded on Sherlock’s supple body, glistening in the sparse light and making him slippery to hold on the flexing muscles beneath creamy skin.

“John,” Sherlock moaned in reply, a strangled sound in his baritone. With parted lips, wavering, he sucked in the much-needed oxygen. John rocking back and forth had taken the man much farther than anticipated.

Easing his thigh from the strong grip of Sherlock’s hand, he put his foot beside the man’s knee. His toes dug into the mattress for leverage. This gave him more freedom to welcome Sherlock’s stabs which became more and more frantic, predicting his imminent orgasm.

“John!” The groan vibrated in the silence of the room besides the heavy panting and the occasional slap of skin on skin.

John understood the plea as he was in the same ecstatic state, too far gone than to stop the riptide crushing up to them. “Touch me then.”

Sherlock raised his chest at the request. He used his now freed hand to palm John’s cock that twitched eagerly in the tight confinement, hardening even more. John, lost in sensation of between rocking back and pushing forward, squeezed his eyes shut as the desire coiled in his lower abdomen after only three firm strokes. His muscles flexed deliciously as he couldn’t hold back anymore. Carnal heat pooled in his stomach. Molten blood seared through him, mingling with intoxicating flashes evoked by Sherlock sweeping along that sensitive tissue. He arched his back, tensed and felt the first surge of undulated waves pushing him toward the voluptuous abyss of an all-consuming rapture.

Warm fluid spurted across his stomach, glued their skin together. John’s head had fallen back into the soft pillows. He groaned at the overwhelming high, muffling his mind with clouded yet pure pleasure. Behind closed eyelids, blinding sparks danced in darkness. He relished the fervent spasms while his body shuddered with each new undulation to spend himself completely in two more intense gushes.

Sherlock released John’s oversensitive prick and propped himself onto his hands again to chase the tightened heat. John sensed his pucker vibrating with his orgasm, pulling Sherlock along the tide of passionate ecstasy.

A groan deeply born in his throat boomed in the bedroom as Sherlock’s pliant body tensed at the sweet torment John elicited in the man. It caused a warm fuzzy quiver in John’s stomach as he watched the man coming undone with a mix of pain and pleasure contorting his face. Eyes screwed up under fluttering lids. Luscious lips parted for sharp gasps as his breath hitched in his throat with each new spasm convulsing his slender frame.

Eternity settled into the bedroom as silence enveloped them besides their thunderous heartbeats drumming in their ears while they came down from their trance-like bliss. His eyes still clouded with the delightful shocks of the aftermath, Sherlock bent down to kiss John, a languid and innocent caress while he carefully pulled out of John’s body. It left an emptiness which John regretted after such intimacy of melding into one entity. A burning sensation around the rim of his muscle arose, but John would cherish it, hold it dear in his mind. After all they had been through, this reminded him of a joint future.

“That was amazing,” John rasped, voice hoarse from heavy panting and groaning.

“Was it?” Sherlock had rolled to the side, his face half-hidden in the softness of his pillow, yet John could see a satisfied smile.

_Always chasing the praise._ A wicked grin sprawled on John’s face instead of a reply. He stretched his body, shaking off a slight stiffness in his muscles who flexed pleasantly at the exertion.

With a grunt in his throat, Sherlock swung his reluctant legs over the edge of the bed. He padded to the bathroom, and John heard water running into the sink through the open door. Returning with a warm damp flannel, Sherlock climbed back onto the bed. The mattress dipped beside John with a rustling whisper of the sheet before Sherlock gently wiped off the evidence of their pleasure from John’s stomach. With a careless flick of his wrist, he threw the cloth to the floor, loath to leave John again.

John rolled on his side, facing Sherlock with heavy-lidded eyes. They entwined their legs and shifted closer to each other, relishing their shared heat beneath the duvet.

Although John was already drifting into sleep, Sherlock’s baritone tore him back, mercurial eyes glistening in the darkness. “You should know that relationships are really not my area, and even though I might not confess my adoration each and every minute it doesn’t mean I love you any less.”

John’s eyes widened as he processed the words in his muddled mind. “Did you just say you love me?”

Sherlock huffed, feigning a pout. “I detest to repeat myself.”

John giggled, a high-pitched sound conveying his happiness. He was so lost in a world where he didn’t fit into, broken and shattered by his authoritarian upbringing. Injured in war, he had to return not just with a physical wound, but also with a scarred mind as he bowed to his father’s demands. His chuckle faded, turning into a grateful warm gaze at the man beside him.

_It took a prostitute to drag me from my miserable existence, and a detective to start a new life._

Sherlock’s eyes moved behind closed lids, indicating that his mind had already detached from the world, slipping into unconsciousness. John looked at the man for a while, marveling at his beauty that wasn’t only visible in his features, but also in his complex mind. Sherlock, who despised sentiment, might not tell how to reciprocate in a relationship, yet he loved his brother so much that he had decided to bleed for Mycroft Holmes. In that moment, John knew with all certainty he would protect Sherlock at all cost his whole life.

_He loves me._

The three words echoed in his muffled mind as sleep drew him more and more on the verge of a dream. A dream that wouldn’t haunt him with gruesome pictures of a war.

***

John was torn from the cozy warmth at 5 a.m. as Sherlock’s mobile buzzed on the nightstand. Eyes blinking at the early morning hour, John scrubbed a sleepy hand over his face. Half awake, he barely listened to the string of words to whomever Sherlock spoke to at such an ungodly time.

_How can he be awake at a moment’s notice?_

John grunted as he stretched the sleep off his body, feeling the sweet soreness in his muscles. In a split second, memories of last night flushed his mind. What a contrast the man bore from last night to now. From passionate and caring to sharp and relentless as he whirled around the room in a flurry of agitation.

Once he rang off he nearly danced with joy. “Oh, it’s Christmas.”

Rubbing his neck, John furrowed his brows. “Yeah, it actually is.”

“What?” Sherlock looked up from the closet which he had opened, rummaging for a two-piece suit. “Oh, you mean it’s actually Christmas.”

“Yes,” John sat up, the duvet crumpling around his hip since the night’s cold had crept into the room.

“I should rephrase then,” Sherlock laid out ready the black suit, John had bought him. “This was Gavin.”

“Who?”

“Lestrade,” Sherlock pointed out with arched eyebrows, implying a _tsk_ at how John could have forgotten his best friend’s first name. Instead of being put off, John snickered at Sherlock’s oblivion. “He just called. There were three suicides in the last couple of months over London. All died of poison with no traceable connection between the bodies. But now they found a fourth one, and she left a message.”

“Did she?” John said good-natured, enjoying as childish giddiness took over Sherlock’s piercing demeanor.

Sherlock shimmied into his trousers, ignoring John’s mocking question. “It’s homicide.” The detective glanced over his shoulder to John. “How long do you need to get dressed?”

“You want me to come with you?” They hadn’t discussed Sherlock’s work and John being implemented into it as a part of a duo.

“Of course,” a teasing grin tugged at the corners of Sherlock’s mouth. “I’d be lost without my blogger.”

A chortle bubbled up John’s throat at Sherlock’s concession for John to write a blog about him. No. _Them_. Of course, the man’s vanity couldn’t refrain from public attention.

So John got up and dressed in a flash, a reminiscence born from Afghanistan. He realized that Sherlock Holmes’ battleground had long become John Watson’s battleground. A metropolis dragging them into events of danger and brilliance to end in John’s revised first blog entry:

_A_ _Study in Pink_.

 

END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That’s it! I hope you enjoyed reading my little fic as much as I enjoyed writing it. The idea of this story was trapped in my mind for over a year, and now it’s finally out, making room for my next Johnlock instalment. Because I can’t live without writing, I already plotted and outlined my next fic and after a short break I’ll start writing it – an AU based on an original story of mine.
> 
> I want to thank everybody who read this, especially as a WIP and left kudos and comments. Feedback is always fueling a writer’s inspiration. And what would a story be without its readers!
> 
> If you want to catch up with me you’ll also find me on [Tumblr](http://nymeria578.tumblr.com/). 
> 
> And at this point I want to leave my special thanks to my most precious beta [GhostTari](http://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostTari/pseuds/GhostTari) once again. Throughout our friendship I’ve learned so much about English grammar and semantics from her in the funniest ways. I’m sure without her my fic would be less enjoyable to read due to my silly mistakes.


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